TWENTY-NINE  TALES 
FROM  THE  FRENCH 


SELECTED  AND  TRANSLATED 

BY 

ALYS  EYRE  MACKLIN 


WITH  AN  INTRODUCTORY  ESSAY 

ON  THE  FRENCH  CONTE 

BY 

ROBERT  HERRICK 


NEW  YORK 

HARCOURT,  BRACE  AND  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    IQ22,  BY 
HARCOURT,   BRACE  AND  COMPANY,  INC. 


The  translation  of  each  story  'in  this  volume 
has  been  authorized  by  its  author 


PRINTED  IN  THE  U.  8.  A.  BY 

THE  QUINN  a  DODEN  COMPANY 

RAHWAY.  N.  J. 


LIBRARY 

Y  ° 


BAKBARA 


PREFACE 
THE  FRENCH  CONTE 


ALL  modern  literatures  contain  numerous  exam- 
ples of  that  shorter  form  of  prose  fiction  known 
in  English  as  the  Short  Story,  although  none  with  the 
possible  exception  of  the  Russian  has  so  fully  devel- 
oped it  into  a  distinct  species,  admirably  fitted  to 
express  a  racial  temperament  as  have  the  French. 
The  English  experiments  in  this  form  as  late  as 
Maria  Edgeworth  and  George  Eliot  were  merely 
clumsy  abbreviations  of  the  novel,  novelettes  rather 
than  true  short  stories,  with  the  elaborate  analyses 
of  character,  extended  descriptions,  and  ponderous 
plots  of  the  larger  form.  And  in  spite  of  occasional 
brilliant  exceptions  among  the  younger  generation  of 
English  fiction  writers  it  may  be  fairly  said  that  the 
English  temperament  has  never  taken  easily  to  this 
genre.  Their  technical  process  is  too  often  a  fore- 
shortening of  more  elaborate  narrative  rather  than  a 
distinct  and  focused  creation.  The  English  mind 
turns  more  naturally  to  accretion  and  analysis  than 
to  compression  and  rapid  synthesis. 

The  short  story  has  developed  more  rapidly  and 
more  expertly  in  the  United  States  than  anywhere 
else  outside  of  France  and  Russia,  thanks  perhaps  to 
the  insistent  commercial  demand  from  our  innumer- 


iv  PREFACE 

able  magazines  for  entertainment  with  which  to  buoy 
up  their  heavy  pages  of  advertising.  Courses  of  in- 
struction in  "the  art  of  the  short  story"  in  college 
and  by  correspondence  supplement  the  efforts  of  edi- 
tors and  the  stimulus  of  successful  examples.  Under 
these  influences  and  the  study  of  Poe  and  Bret  Harte 
and  O.  Henry,  the  contemporary  American  short 
story  is  a  much  more  skilful  performance  than  its 
Anglo-Saxon  ancestor:  its  practitioners  have  learned 
that  the  short  story  is  something  essentially  different 
from  the  novelette,  a  form  individual  in  structure  and 
in  purpose.  But  they  have  not  yet  realized  in  any 
considerable  numbers  that  as  produced  in  our  country 
it  is  something  other  than  the  French  conte,  lacking 
the  self-assurance,  the  flexibility,  the  universality, — 
the  social  quality  in  brief,  which  makes  the  French 
story  unique  among  literary  forms  as  a  vehicle  for 
the  imaginative  expression  of  the  temperament  and 
the  genius  of  a  people.  The  American  short  story, 
prolific  and  varied  as  it  is,  has  a  long  way  to  go 
before  it  can  adequately  interpret  American  life  and 
character  as  the  French  conte  reflects  the  life  and 
character  of  the  French,  in  all  moods  and  phases. 

It  may  be  said  with  equal  justice  that  the  French 
have  never  fully  realized  the  possibilities  of  the  true 
novel  as  the  English  and  the  Russians  have  devel- 
oped this  noble  literary  form, — that  broad  panorama 
of  human  affairs  where  a  group  of  interrelated  hu- 
man beings  are  projected  and  developed  organically 
through  the  passage  of  time.  With  Les  Miser- 
able*, Balzac's  magnificent  improvisations,  and  the 
cosmopolitan  scope  of  Jean  Chris tophe  in  evidence, 
it  is  nevertheless  true  that  the  roman,  a  longue 


PREFACE  v 

haleine^remz'ms  alien  to  the  French  genius.  The  pro- 
longed exposition  of  a  single  protagonist  through 
a  multitude  of  episodes  constitutes  something  less 
than  the  true  novel.  These  differences  of  achieve- 
ment in  national  literatures  are  deeply  rooted  and 
significant  of  more  than  literary  peculiarities  or  of 
accident.  The  conte  is  the  instinctive  method  of 
expression  of  a  nervous,  cerebral,  highly  civilized 
race,  whose  readers  can  divine  from  a  hint  the  hidden 
implications- of  the  artist;  for  whom  everything  does 
not  have  to  be  spelled  out  and  conscientiously  elab- 
orated and  illustrated.  As  its  name  implies  the  conte 
is  a  mere  story,  in  germ  the  anecdote,  the  tale  told 
by  word  of  mouth  with  the  aid  of  gesture  and  facial 
expression :  the  hearer  is  ever  present  to  the  imagina- 
tion of  the  narrator.  A  little  matter  developed 
briefly  and  carefully,  with  a  premeditated  explosion, 
episodic  and  fleeting,  yet  casting  long  shadows  back- 
ward and  forward  upon  the  destinies,  the  dramas, 
of  the  human  beings  involved.  It  is  peculiarly 
the  art  of  a  people  fond  of  conversation,  urged 
to  comment  upon  life's  experience,  with  a  power 
of  swift  analysis  and  comprehensive  synthesis, — 
what  we  call  generalization, — and  above  all  fond 
of  those  ironic  contrasts  between  character  and 
circumstance  which  furnish  the  comedian  with  his 
precious  substance.  It  is  an  art  enjoyed  by  a  people 
who  have  commonly  a  lively  appreciation  of  the  hu- 
man comedy  as  it  unrolls  itself  before  their  eyes  and 
are  willing  to  give  it  an  objective  attention,  when 
imaginatively  presented,  quite  apart  from  its  inci- 
dence upon  themselves.  A  social  art  for  a  social 
people. 


vi  PREFACE 


In  such  a  mood  for  such  an  audience  all  material 
of  the  human  comedy,  no  matter  how  slight  and 
evanescent  it  may  seem,  is  fit  for  the  creator's  art. 
Much  which  the  French  story-teller  deems  adequate 
to  carry  his  purpose  seems  thin  and  slight  to  the 
Anglo-Saxon  mind.  Most  of  the  stories  in  the  ac- 
companying volume,  examples  of  the  contemporary 
conte,  may  appeal  to  the  American  reader  not  accus- 
tomed to  the  French  point  of  view  unsubstantial, 
sometimes  trivial,  and  doubtless  would  be  rejected  by 
writer  and  editor  as  too  immaterial  for  the  substance 
of  a  good  short  story.  We  expect  more  analysis, 
more  plot,  more  incident — or  what  not.  These  ap- 
pear to  be  but  the  jottings  of  the  artist,  sauntering 
pencil  and  note-book  in  hand  down  the  boulevards  of 
life, — sketches  of  character,  notes  of  paradoxical  sit- 
uations, atmospheres,  physical  and  spiritual,  poignant 
facts — but  not  "stories"  !  Take  for  instance  The  Fez, 
one  of  the  best  examples  in  this  volume  of  the  genre. 
An  old  Turkish  vagabond  selling  imitation  jewelry  to 
the  patrons  of  cafes  on  the  boulevard,  content  with 
his  modest  progress  and  situation,  having  forgotten 
his  distant  youth  and  abandoned  its  national  dress 
suddenly  meets  the  fact  of  the  war  in  which  his  coun- 
trymen are  fighting:  he  becomes  at  one  stroke  again 
the  Turk,  tumultuous,  hidden  memories  and  instincts 
rising  from  deep  within,  and  he  casts  aside  his  rusty 
European  high  hat  and  dons  his  discarded  fez,  once 
more  a  Turk.  This  is  nationalism,  the  call  of  race, 
in  a  single  instance,  with  all  its  obscure  instinctive 
control  of  human  beings.  Even  slighter  in  texture  is 


PREFACE  vii 

Rene  Bizet's  A  Good  Old  Sort.  A  dingy  provin- 
cial cafe,  a  group  of  squalid  players,  a  poor  old 
dupe,  are  all  distinctly  etched  with  the  slightest  use 
of  illustrative  incident.  It  is  a  situation  for  the  the- 
ater, one  says,  and  that  is  often  true  of  the  French 
conte  :tit  has  the  distinctness,  the  crispness,  the  imme- 
diacy as  well  as  the  dramatic  surprise  of  the  theater. 
(In  fact  in  descent  through  the  fabliaux  the  mod- 
ern form  runs  back  directly  to  the  theater.)  It  is 
not  surprising  that  so  many  French  story  tellers 
are  ambidexterous  in  their  art,  turning  from  story  to 
play  and  back  again  with  the  flexibility  and  mastery 
that  betrays  no  uncomfortable  consciousness  of  dif- 
ference in  the  two  forms  of  expression.  Indeed, 
many  contes  are  in  dialogue  (like  Gyp's  Flirtation 
in  this  volume),  lacking  merely  the  material  decora- 
tion of  the  stage,  and  conversely  it  may  be  observed 
that  the  French  theater  has  found  a  place  for  the 
short  piece  which  the  English  and  American  drama 
has  not  cultivated.  A  French  audience,  educated 
daily  in  the  conte  of  the  feuilleton,  is  satisfied  with 
an  evening's  entertainment  such  as  is  offered  at  the 
Grande  Guignol  consisting  of  four  or  five  brief  plays 
varied  in  theme  and  manner,  each  one  a  succinct  epi- 
sodic treatment  of  life. 

If  the  conte  is  the  most  representative  manner  in 
French  fiction,  through  which  the  national  instinct 
for  drama  and  observation  universally  expresses 
itself,  so  the  commercial  vehicle  of  French  journal- 
ism is  adapted  to  the  cultivation  of  this  art.  As 
everybody  knows  (even  the  American  doughboy  after 
a  bitter  and  bewildered  experience)  the  French  news- 
paper always  has  been  and  always  will  be  something 


viii  PREFACE 

quite  different  from  the  English  or  the  American 
product.  Even  the  best  of  the  French  papers  give 
seemingly  so  little  attention  to  "news"  or  to  what 
our  journalism  calls  "stories,"  and  so  much  more 
attention  to  the  graceful  treatment  of  life  in  general. 
Even  its  political  leaders  the  French  editor  manages 
to  invest  with  some  imaginative  charm — and  passion, 
and  dresses  up  an  argument  with  illustration  and  epi- 
gram. We  account  for  this  quality  in  journalism  by 
saying  that  the  French  are  fond  of  talk.  It  is  that 
and  more :  it  is  due  to  the  fondness  of  the  people  for 
art,  that  is  for  the  concrete  and  emotional  realiza- 
tion of  life.  A  French  newspaper  "story"  (as  of  the 
famous  "affaire")  may  be  less  filling  than  the  corre- 
sponding American  article,  but  it  is  much  nearer 
imaginative  realization,  even  when  less  authentic  and 
less  realistic.  Front  the  sprightly  detailing  of  a 
scandal  "in  the  highest  circles,"  thinly  anonymized  by 
the  use  of  initials,  to  the  actual  conte  printed  in  the 
feuilleton  at  the  bottom  of  the  page  there  is  but  a 
step — and  that  the  slightest — either  in  matter  or 
method.  I  remember  reading  in  one  of  the  Paris 
newspapers  during  the  early  months  of  the  war  a 
feuilleton  which  consisted  of  a  scene  in  dialogue  be- 
tween a  poilu  en  permission  and  his  wife  in  their 
apartment  in  the  workers'  quarter  of  Paris.  The 
wife  after  two  days  of  eager  efforts  to  arouse  her 
soldier  man  to  his  accustomed  interest  in  their  home 
and  friends  reproaches  him  for  his  dumbness  and  in- 
difference to  all  about  him.  "Why  won't  you  talk 
to  us, — to  me,"  she  says  to  him.  "Why  won't  you 
tell  me  about  your  life  labasf  And  the  poilu  after 
reflection  gravely  replies, — "Those  who  make  this 


PREFACE  ix 

war  never  talk  about  it."  In  that  simple  scene,  with 
its  exchange  between  the  loving  wife  and  her 
estranged  husband,  the  soldier's  explanation  of  his 
peculiar  deadness  to  the  civilian  routine,  was 
summed  up  much  of  the  peculiar  quality  of  the 
war  and  its  effect  upon  the  citizen  soldier.  Con- 
trast this  typical  situation  beneath  the  mansard 
in  the  little  apartment,  and  its  expressive  dialogue, 
with  a  similar  "story"  in  the  American  newspaper. 
The  French  newspaper  giving  voice  to  any  and  all 
phases  of  life,  whether  so-called  actual  or  imagined, 
making  no  very  great  distinction  between  the  two,  has 
been  the  fertile  forcing  bed  for  the  French  story 
teller.  The  French  newspapers  print  these  contes 
by  the  thousands ;  each  day  they  appear  at  the  bottom 
of  the  page,  as  many  in  this  volume  appeared  in 
Le  Journal.  Instead  of  our  joke  columns  and  special 
writers'  columns  of  all  sorts  of  odds  and  ends,  the 
French  have  their  feuilletonists — -and  which  is  the 
more  civilized  taste?  Reporters  turn  easily  from 
their  regular  work  to  the  writing  of  contes  for  the 
feuilleton.  Hence  there  is  less  difficulty  for  the 
French  boy  who  aspires  to  become  a  writer  in  getting 
a  suitable  training  through  the  newspaper  than  with 
us.  The  standards  of  accomplishment  and  excellence 
are  not  so  far  apart.  And  that  is  why  apparently 
there  are  so  many  more  competent  writers  of  fiction 
in  France  than  in  England  or  America. 

The  secret  of  it  all,  I  take  it,  is  that  the  French- 
man does  not  draw  that  arbitrary  and  formal  line 
between  life  and  art  which  we  serious-minded  Anglo- 
Saxons  are  still  inclined  to  set  up.  All  the  stuff  of 
life  is  to  the  French  mind  good  material  for  expres- 


x  PREFACE 

sion,  in  novel  or  play  or  story,  as  in  newspaper  re- 
port. Evidence  of  the  effect  of  this  way  of  thinking 
can  be  found  in  the  prolific  publication  during  the 
earlier  years  of  the  great  war  of  diaries  and  books 
of  war'  experience,  which  while  being  intimate  and 
informal  and  personal  had  also  a  high  imaginative 
and  artistic  quality.  I  would  cite  Duhamel's  several 
war  books  drawn  from  his  hospital  experiences. 
Each  one  of  the  episodes  in  Civilization,  for  in- 
stance, is  something  more  than  the  report  of  a 
"case" :  it  is  a  complete  conte  done  with  the  tender 
individuality  of  the  artist,  full  of  perception.  This 
free,  swift  exchange  between  life  lived  and  life  or- 
dered and  presented  imaginatively,  which  is  charac- 
teristic of  French  literature,  has  a  deep  cultural  sig- 
nificance. French  people  express  themselves  com- 
monly with  the  precision  and  the  concrete  visualiza- 
tion of  the  artist.  They  analyze  and  synthesize  and 
select  instinctively  like  the  artist.  An  incident  has 
more  than  its  own  fleeting  significance :  it  is  illustra- 
tive of  something  general  in  human  experience. 
Hence  comes  the  average  excellence  merely  as  writ- 
ing of  the  ordinary  newspaper,  the  boulevard  play, 
the  war  book, — yes,  even  the  text-book!  In  such  a 
warm  atmosphere  of  appreciation  the  conte  has  flour- 
ished luxuriantly. 

3 

All  the  stuff  of  life  is  to  the  French  mind  good 
material  for  expression,  I  have  said.  Just  as  the 
trivial  and  the  passing  may  be  endowed  with  signifi- 
cance, so  the  universal  and  fundamental  experience  of 
sex  may  not  be  barred  from  social  or  moral  consid- 


PREFACE  xi 

erations.  The  French  attitude  towards  sex  is  usu- 
ally misunderstood  by  the  English  and  the  American 
stranger,  both  in  life  and  in  literature.  It  is  not  be- 
cause the  French  writer  or  his  readers  are  more  pru- 
rient or  more  sex-obsessed  than  other  people  that 
some  form  of  sex  situation  appears  so  often  in  French 
literature.  It  is  rather  because  sex  being  one  of  the 
universal  keys  to  human  action  the  Frenchman  will 
not  ignore  it  at  the  demand  of  a  hypocritical  mod- 
esty or  conventional  morality.  He  sees  the  sex  urge 
specifically  involved  in  so  many  human  manifesta- 
tions that  he  refuses  to  turn  his  face  and  pretend  that 
it  isn't  so.  Moreover  sex  is  one  of  the  few  great 
comic  themes  of  humanity,  which  the  French  covet- 
ously preserve.  The  world  in  these  graver  days  has 
lost  some  of  the  old  fields  of  comedy:  insanity  al- 
ready has  disappeared,  and  now  drunkenness  is  pass- 
ing, presently  perhaps  old  age  will  no  longer  appeal 
to  the  civilized  mind  as  comic.  To  set  forth  the  aber- 
rations of  a  deranged  mind  stirs  our  tears  rather 
than  our  smiles,  except  among  hard-minded  youth. 
But  the  individual  driven  by  sex  hunger  into  humili- 
ating and  ridiculous  perplexities  still  remains,  at 
least  to  the  French  mind,  a  legitimate  source  of  laugh- 
ter. The  human  being  dominated  by  sex  retains 
most  potently  the  illusion  of  his  own  personality,  but 
to  the  observer  his  illusion  is  as  often  ridiculous  as 
pathetic.  It  will  be  a  long  time  before  the  French 
can  be  persuaded  that  sex  should  be  excluded  from 
their  literature  unless  solemnly  treated.  In  spite  of 
this  traditional  attitude  towards  sex,  in  spite  of  the 
infinite  variations  in  situation  presented,  French  lit- 
erature has  little  nastiness  in  it,  little  morbidity  of 


xii  PREFACE 

sex  preoccupation.  For  examples  of  that  disease  one 
must  go  rather  to  English,  and — occasionally — 
American  literature.  The  French  attack  is  more 
often  gay  than  somber,  and  if  realistic  at  least 
healthy.  Possibly  the  present  volume  may  have  been 
winnowed  for  a  more  puritan  public  than  the  feuille- 
ton  reaches,  yet  even  in  this  collection  of  twenty-nine 
tales  there  are  two  examples  of  the  French  treatment 
of  this  common  aspect  of  humanity, — one  tragic  and 
one  gay.  When  She  Was  Dead  sets  forth  the  rev- 
elation over  the  deathbed  of  a  woman  of  her  dual 
personality  in  the  presence  of  her  two  lovers,  one 
who  had  possessed  her  body  and  the  other  who  had 
held  her  soul.  Incidentally  this  story  is  an  instance 
of  the  temptation  to  exaggeration  and  the  straining 
of  circumstance  in  order  to  make  evident  a  subtle 
generalization.  The  situation  here  presented  may  be 
unreal:  the  psychology  is  perfectly  sound.  In  the 
farcical  story  of  the  The  Widow  and  the  device  em- 
ployed for  disposing  of  an  overstock  of  household 
furniture,  the  situation  is  also  pushed  to  extrara- 
gance. 

This  I  may  say  in  passing  is  one  of  the  dangers 
of  the  highly  finished  art  of  the  conte:  the  temptation 
to  the  writer  to  lay  hold  of  the  bizarre  and  the  ex- 
cessive in  order  to  "make  his  point"  tellingly  within 
the  allotted  compass.  The  conclusion  of  The  Last 
Visit  and  the  motivation  of  The  Wrist-Watch 
betray  this  failure.  The  greatest  masters  of  the 
conte  have  not  often  relied  upon  such  coups  de  the- 
atre. Daudet's  famous  picture  of  the  last  French 
lesson  Maupassant's  marvelous  Piece  of  String  and 
The  Necklace,  as  well  as  the  Marguerittes'  Poum 
and  the  Zouave  of  this  volume  are  instances  of  the 


PREFACE  xiii 

sufficiency    and   poignancy    of   the    simplest,    most 
restrained  methods. 

4 

There  is  one  permeating  quality  of  the  French 
story  as  of  the  French  character,  which,  alas,  our  own 
literature  is  almost  bereft  of,  and  that  is  irony. 
Irony,  I  take  it,  is  in  large  the  perception  of  the  eter- 
nal contrast  between  human  will  and  imagination  and 
human  fate.  It  is  the  very  essence  of  any  fully  civ- 
ilized comprehension  of  life.  The  French  abound  in 
this  salt  with  which  literature  as  life  is  preserved. 
It  is  the  genesis  of  the  familiar  shrug  of  the  shoul- 
ders, the  controlled  and  fleeting  smile,  the  ripple  of 
subdued  laughter  that  greets  a  subtle  situation  in  a 
French  theater.  We  Americans  do  not  understand 
irony;  we  mistake  it  for  sarcasm  and  are  uncom- 
fortable under  it.  It  makes  us  feel  that  some  one  is 
laughing  at  us  and  lowers  our  self-esteem.  We  do 
not  like  it,  if  we  are  aware  of  it.  And  we  frequently 
mistakenly  condemn  it  as  the  expression  of  a  critical 
instead  of  a  "constructive"  attitude  in  life;  or  in 
other  pollyannaish  terms.  Irony  in  its  fullest  reach  is, 
rather,  the  understanding  of  the  gods,  which  though 
bitter  may  be  tender  and  kind.  It  is  through  irony 
that  man  lifts  himself  momentarily  above  his  puppet 
doom  and  is  enabled  to  see  himself  roundly,  toler- 
antly, and  sanely.  It  is  death  to  self-satisfaction  and 
crudity.  .  .  . 

Scarcely  one  of  the  twenty-nine  stories  brought  to- 
gether in  this  volume  from  so  many  different  sources 
but  is  touched  somewhere  with  this  saving  quality  of 
irony,  either  in  fact  or  in  expression.  The  mother 
leaves  her  son  condemned  to  death  for  crime  happy 


xiv  PREFACE 

in  the  illusion  of  a  kiss  from  the  woman  for  whom  he 
committed  his  crime.  The  coffin  intended  for  a  dead 
neighbor  is  set  down  by  mistake  in  the  room  of  a 
sick  woman  too  feeble  to  face  the  hardships  of  her 
life.  The  embezzler  who  has  'had  the  patience  to 
serve  his  long  prison  term  in  the  hope  of  ultimately 
enjoying  his  carefully  hidden  plunder  forgets  the  key 
to  its  possession  and  drowns  himself  in  despair.  .  .  . 
Without  irony  the  savor  would  fade  from  the  French 
conte.  And  it  is  obviously  the  one  most  needed 
quality  in  our  own  American  short  story,  but  until 
that  civilization  which  an  art  reflects  has  attained  the 
poise  which  permits  its  appreciation  it  is  futile  to 
look  for  it.  Main  Street  has  not  yet  reached  that 
point,  which  the  French  peasant  long  ago  reached, 
where  small  things  including  himself  and  his  affairs 
can  be  contemplated  sub  specie  aeternitatis,  with  a 
gentle  smile.  For  our  Hart,  Schaffner  and  Marx 
young  heroes,  our  magazine-cover  girls,  our  Sat- 
urday Evening  Post  millionaires  would  laugh  them- 
selves out  of  existence,  at  the  entrance  of  reality. 

5 

These,  then,  are  the  chief  characteristics  of  this 
precious  French  art  in  the  multiform  variety  of  the 
conte:  a  delicate  and  widely  trained  skill  in  presenta- 
tion, a  just  interchange  between  life  and  art  and  a 
liberal  choice  of  material,  an  ironic  quality  of  soul 
capable  of  holding  life  a  little  way  from  the  eyes  and 
gently  smiling  at  it.  Other  qualities  of  course,  but 
these  to  my  taste  are  the  enduring  ones.  There  are 
certain  capabilities  of  the  short  fiction  form  which 
have  been  exploited  better  by  others,  by  the  Russians 


PREFACE  xv 

especially :  the  impression  of  the  atmosphere  of  large 
masses  of  life  as  with  Tchekof,  the  literal  rendering 
of  the  primitive  modes  of  the  human  soul  as  with 
Gorky.  There  may  be  excellencies  and  characteris- 
tics all  our  own  some  day  to  be  revealed  in  the  Amer- 
ican magazine  story.  But  for  closeness,  suppleness, 
breadth  of  treatment,  for  technical  accomplishment 
and  diversity,  the  French  conte  is  as  yet  without 
real  rivals. 

This  volume  of  twenty-nine  stories  has  the  quality 
of  contemporaneousness  in  the  sense  that  they  are 
all  the  work  of  Frenchmen  still  living  and  writing. 
If  they  may  be  taken  as  adequately  representative  of 
contemporary  work  in  this  field,  we  must  in  all  hon- 
esty admit  that  temporarily  the  French  art  of  the 
conte  has  lost  something  of  its  rich  authority  from 
the  glorious  days  of  the  great  Guy.  That  may  mean 
merely  that  no  one  outstanding  genius  is  just  now 
pouring  himself  into  this  special  mold,  or  that  the 
world  convulsion,  in  this  as  in  so  many  other  ways  a 
vast  dissipator  of  energies,  has  scattered  the  conte 
material  through  many  other  channels, — books  of 
war  experience,  journals  and  letters,  and  also  spilled 
it  prodigally  on  the  bloody  fields  of  France.  Not  lost 
irrevocably,  it  is  reasonable  to  hope,  but  in  due  time 
to  be  reassembled,  assimilated  according  to  the  mys- 
tic alchemy  of  the  creative  mind,  renewed  with  all 
its  old  fecundity  to  give  further  voice  to  the  national 
genius.  For  as  long  as  French  people  live,  the  conte 
will  fall  from  ironic  lips  and  flow  from  skilful  pens. 

ROBERT  HERRICK. 

New  York. 

November,  1921. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

TRISTAN  BERNARD:  The  Last  Visit  ....  3 

ANDRE  BIRABEAU :  The  Barbers  Miracle  .  .  .  15 

RENE  BIZET:  A  Good  Old  Sort  ....  27 

FREDERIC  BOUTET:  Force  of  Circumstances  .  .  37 

MAX  AND  ALEX  FISCHER:  Army  Time  ...  47 

COLETTE  WILLY:  Gitanette 55 

LUCIE  DELARUE-MADRUS  :  The  Inheritance  .  .  65 

LUCIEN  DESCAVES:  The  Day  Out  ....  73 

HENRI  DUVERNOIS:  The  Fez 79 

CLAUDE  FARRERE:  The  Turret 89 

LEON  FRAPIE:  The  Pockets 103 

HUGUETTE  GARNIER:  The  First  Short  Dress  .  .  in 

GYP:  Flirtation 121 

ABEL  HERMANT:  The  Wrist-Watch  ....  141 
CHARLES-HENRY  HIRSCH:  Isaac  Levitski  .  .  .149 

EDMOND  JALOUX:  The  Fugitive 161 

MAURICE  LEVEL:  The  Debt-Collector  .  .  .171 
ALFRED  MACHARD:  Bout-de-Bibi  —  "Major  Six 

Stripes" ,.  181 

PIERRE  MAC  ORLAN:  The  Philanthropist  .  .  .  191 

BINET-VALMER  :  When  She  Was  Dead  .  .  .  199 
PAUL  AND  VICTOR  MARGUERITTE:  Poum  and  the 

Zouave 209 

VICTOR  MARGUERITTE:  The  Whipper-Snapper  .  .  219 

PIERRE  MILLE:  Number  Thirteen  ....  229 

MARCEL  PREVOST:  My  Brother  Guy  ....  239 
MICHEL  PROVINS:  "Gossip"  .  .  .  .  .251 

J.  H.  ROSNY,  AINE:  The  Champion  ....  265 

ROBERT  SCHEFFER:  The  Mother  .  ....  283 

MARCELLE  TINAYRE  :  The  Home-Cominff  .  .  .  293 

PIERRE  VEBER:  Widow  Foigney 301 


TRISTAN  BERNARD 


TRISTAN  BERNARD  was  born  in  1866  at  Besancon,  and  educated 
in  Paris.  He  studied  Law,  and  was  for  some  years  manager  of 
the  Usine  d' Aluminium  de  Creil.  It  was  only  in  1892  that  he 
began  to  devote  himself  exclusively  to  letters,  and  his  first  book, 
Vous  m'en  direz  tant,  written  in  collaboration  with  his  brother- 
in-law,  Pierre  Veber,  appeared  in  1894.  He  is  a  prolific  writer, 
and  novels,  plays,  short  stories  and  articles  flow  from  him  with- 
out effort.  "The  Last  Visit,"  which  figures  in  a  volume  of  contes 
called  Amants  et  Voleurs,  published  by  Calmann-Levy,  was  de- 
veloped and  dramatized,  and,  under  the  title  of  "Jeanne  Dore," 
was  played  by  Madame  Sarah  Bernhardt 


THE  LAST  VISIT 
By  TRISTAN  BERNARD 

"TV/fADAME  LEON,  don't  bother  about  that 
-LV-I.  petticoat  now.  You  can  finish  it  to-morrow. 
I'd  rather  you  got  on  with  my  husband's  overcoat  to- 
day; we're  going  out  to-night,  and  if  the  lining  of 
the  sleeve  is  still  torn,  I'll  never  hear  the  last  of  it. 
I'll  give  you  some  satinette  I  was  keeping  for  a  skirt 
.  .  .  But  tell  me,  Madame  Leon,  is  there  anything 
the  matter  with  you?  You  look  as  if  you've  been 
crying!" 

"No,  Madame.     There's  nothing  the  matter." 

"Come,  come — something's  wrong.  Won't  you 
tell  me? 

"I'd  rather  not  talk  about  it,  Madame.  It's  four 
years  to-day  since  .  .  .  since  my  poor  boy  .  .  ." 

"You  have  lost  a  son?" 

"Alas,  Madame!  It  was  the  way  I  lost  him 
that  .  .  ." 

"I  won't  ask  you  .  .  ." 

"You'll  have  heard  them  talking  of  Hucheux?  .  .  . 
That's  my  real  name,  Madame.  Here  in  Paris  it 
doesn't  matter  much  ...  it  all  happened  away  in 
the  country  at  home.  I  ought  to  tell  you  that  when 
I  was  twenty  I  was  married  to  a  young  man  who  was 
nineteen." 

"You  took  a  great  fancy  to  each  other?" 

3 


4  THE  LAST  VISIT 

"No,  Madame.  We  were  cousins.  We  just 
thought  of  it  one  day  because  we  knew  each  other 
so  well.  We  were  fond  of  each  other  like  cousins. 
We  never  thought  of  anything  else.  He  was  big  and 
kind,  and  he  was  very  retiring  with  nothing  to  say 
for  himself,  We  were  only  married  six  weeks.  He 
got  a  chill  and  died.  I  was  in  the  family  way,  and 
the  baby  was  born  eight  months  afterwards. 

"He  got  the  chill  at  his  aunt's  funeral,  who  used  to 
have  a  little  draper's  shop  in  the  town  we  lived  in.  I 
took  the  shop  over  for  the  sake  of  having  something 
behind  me,  being  alone  in  the  world,  and  it  was  better 
than  going  out  sewing  by  the  day.  And  I  brought  the 
little  one  up  all  alone,  not  wanting  to  marry  any  one 
else  in  spite  of  there  being  others  after  me;  there 
were  three  of  them  telling  me  I  was  pretty  and  ask- 
ing me  to  marry  them;  yes,  three,  and  one  of  them 
was  a  paymaster's  sergeant  who  made  over  forty 
francs  a  month  doing  the  bills  for  a  butcher. 

"My  little  one  grew  up  nicely.  I  sent  him  to 
school.  He  was  one  of  the  best  boys  in  the  school, 
and  a  scholar,  too,  always  first,  Madame,  for  arith- 
metic and  writing.  Till  he  was  eighteen,  no  one  could 
have  found  a  fault  with  that  lad  of  mine.  Never 
wanting  to  go  out,  always  reading.  I  thought  that 
was  good  for  him,  and  all  the  time  it  was  turning  his 
brain.  I  thought  he  would  be  like  his  father  with 
women,  a  man  who  knew  no  more  about  such  things 
than  I  did.  And  then,  Madame,  all  of  a  sudden,  in 
the  house  of  a  school  friend,  he  got  to  know  a  lady 
who  was  the  wife  of  a  man  who  had  a  shop  near 
mine. 

"One  day  he  came  to  me  and  said: 


THE  LAST  VISIT  5 

"  'Mother,  I  want  four  thousand  francs.  I  must 
have  it  I' 

uHe  knew  I'd  been  able  to  put  a  little  money  by. 
Of  course  I  asked  him  what  he  wanted  it  for.  'At 
first  he  wouldn't  say,  and  then  there  he  was  telling 
me  a  long  story,  that  he'd  got  intimate  with  this  lady, 
that  the  husband  of  the  lady  was  going  to  fail  in  busi- 
ness, and  that  he  wanted  to  stop  his  failing.  Of 
course  I  said  I  wouldn't  give  him  the  money.  He 
got  into  an  awful  state,  and  made  a  scene.  But  what 
could  I  do  ?  I  couldn't  give  him  all  that  money.  It 
was  for  him  I  was  saving  it.  And  then  I  didn't  know 
what  he'd  be  wanting  next,  where  it  would  all  stop. 
And  nobody  gives  away  money  like  that. 

"  'All  right,'  he  says  to  me.  'If  that's  how  it  is, 
I'll  go  and  ask  my  god-father  for  it.' 

"His  god-father  lived  out  of  town,  in  the  last 
house  of  the  suburb.  He'd  been  a  cooper,  and  was 
getting  on  for  eighty. 

"  'I  know  your  god-father,'  says  I.  'He  won't 
lend  you  anything,  my  poor  lad.  You'll  only  turn 
him  against  you,  and  it'll  be  a  pity  to  do  that.' 

"Well,  he  didn't  listen  to  me,  just  went  all  the 
same.  That  was  a  little  after  supper.  I  sat  up  for 
him  till  eleven.  Then  I  went  to  bed. 

"I  felt  a  bit  anxious,  but  he'd  slept  out  once  or 
twice  before  .  .  .  The  next  morning  there  was  still 
no  sign  of  him.  It  was  market  day,  and  I  went  with 
my  basket  to  the  square.  And,  Madame,  this  is  what 
I  heard.  There  were  two  old  women  selling  vege- 
tables, and  one  of  them  says:  'Yes,'  she  says  to  the 
other,  'he  didn't  offer  no  resistance.  An  old  man 
like  that  of  over  a  hundred.  He  hit  him  on  the  head 


6  THE  LAST  VISIT 

with  a  brass  candlestick !  It'll  likely  have  been  some 
tramp  thinking  there  was  sure  to  be  money  in  the  old 
cooper's  house.' 

"At  that  moment,  Madame,  >how  I  managed  to 
stand  straight  I  don't  know.  My  legs  were  trembling 
under  me.  I  didn't  know  where  I  was.  I  could  hear 
the  hens  clucking  and  the  people  talking,  and  the 
noise  went  on  without  stopping.  Then  I  heard  other 
people  saying  things  about  it,  and  they  were  making 
it  out  different — that  it  was  a  soldier  on  leave  who 
had  done  it,  and  they'd  got  him,  and  he  was  in  prison 
.  .  .  Then  I  felt  happy.  I'd  never  been  so  happy 
in  my  life  .  .  .  The  noise  of  the  market  sounded 
pleasant.  There  was  a  nice  smell  of  butter  and  of 
the  feathers  of  the  fowls. 

"I'd  forgotten  what  I'd  come  to  buy,  whether  it 
was  a  cabbage  or  some  carrots.  And  then  they  were 
at  it  again,  talking  about  the  same  thing.  And  this 
is  what  I  heard. 

"A  young  lady  who  was  the  chemist's  servant  was 
saying  she  didn't  know  who  had  committed  the  crime. 
I  went  up  to  her  and  I  said: 

"  'It  was  a  soldier  on  leave  that  did  it.' 

"  'No,  you're  wrong  1'  says  the  girl.  'They  ar- 
rested a  soldier,  but  they  let  him  go  at  once.  He  told 
them  right  enough  where  he  was  when  it  happened.' 

"I  went  home  without  buying  anything.  I  couldn't 
think  of  anything.  I  felt  sick,  and  my  legs  were  shak- 
ing. And  then,  Madame,  when  I  went  into  my  son's 
room,  what  do  you  think  I  saw?  Henri,  with  a  pail 
of  water  on  the  floor,  and  washing  his  coat  in  it. 

"Then  I  began  to  cry  and  call  out  like  as  if  I  had 
gone  mad.  He  cried,  too,  and  he  told  me  to  be  quiet. 


THE  LAST  VISIT  7 

"  'What  have  you  done,  oh,  what  have  you  done, 
my  Henri?' 

"And  I  cried  and  cried,  just  like  I'm  crying  now." 

"And  weren't  you  a  little  frightened  of  him? 
Didn't  you  keep  away  from  him?" 

"From  my  little  one,  Madame?  .  .  .  Oh,  how 
terrible  it  was  to  see  him  like  that!  .  .  .  He  sat 
there,  stock-still,  never  thinking  of  getting  away  from 
the  police.  It  was  me  that  had  to  tell  him  to  go. 
But  he  couldn't  go  by  the  station.  He  could  ride  a 
bicycle  well,  but  he  had  sold  his  to  give  the  money  to 
this  woman,  so  I  gave  him  the  price  of  another,  and 
enough  to  keep  him  for  a  little  while.  He  kissed  me 
and  left  me  alone,  and  I  had  to  hide  his  clothes  by 
myself.  They  weren't  stained,  but  they  were  wet, 
and  the  police  might  have  asked  why  he  had  washed 
cloth  things  that  ought  to  be  sent  to  be  cleaned. 
When  it  was  dark  I  buried  them  in  the  garden. 

"I  didn't  see  any  one  till  next  day,  and  then  two 
men  from  the  police-station  came  to  ask  where  my 
son  was.  And  the  Inspector  came  himself.  He 
looked  everywhere  without  finding  anything.  I  told 
them  my  son  had  been  away  from  home  for  several 
days.  If  only  you  could  have  seen  how  quiet  I  was. 
I  didn't  know  myself,  for  I  was  always  timid  talking 
to  people,  and  there  I  was  lying  to  these  gentlemen 
as  if  I  was  speaking  the  truth.  But  I  had  to,  and 
I  did  it. 

"There  wasn't  much  evidence  against  Henri,  and 
they  didn't  know  where  he  was.  He  could  have  got 
right  away  and  kept  hidden,  but — can  you  believe 
it?  He  came  back  in  two  days'  time.  He  couldn't 
keep  away  from  this  woman.  He  had  always  been 


8  THE  LAST  VISIT 

such  a  good  lad,  quiet-like  and  timid,  but  since  she'd 
got  hold  of  him,  he  wasn't  afraid  of  anything.  He'd 
come  back  to  see  her  pass  by  in  the  street.  He  hung 
about  her  house  in  the  rue  des  Chaumieres.  A  little 
boy  saw  him,  and  told  another  who  knew  he  was 
wanted,  and  they  went  to  Chevalet,  the  Inspector. 
And  Chevalet  and  another  man  had  nothing  to  do 
but  walk  up  to  him,  and  take  him  like  you  take  a  little 
bird  in  your  hand. 

"Everybody  was  very  kind  to  me.  They  didn't 
spare  themselves  in  doing  things  for  me.  It  seemed 
to  please  them  to  be  generous  to  me,  and  they  kept 
on  trying  to  comfort  me  by  saying  it  was  not  my 
fault  if  I  had  brought  such  a  creature  into  the  world. 
They  said  he  was  a  hardened  criminal,  a  terrible 
monster,  because  the  head  of  his  god-father  had  been 
battered  in  by  a  candlestick.  I  knew  it  had  happened 
when  he  was  out  of  his  mind,  and  that  he  had  hit 
like  a  brute  because  he  didn't  know  what  he  was 
doing.  I  said  it  often  to  his  lawyer,  but  he  never  told 
them.  He  never  listened  to  what  I  said.  I'd  done 
wrong  in  going  to  that  lawyer !  He  was  a  young  man 
who  was  always  busy  with  other  things,  getting  up 
meetings  for  young  lawyers,  and  he  didn't  have  many 
people  go  to  him.  He  w'as  big  and  dark,  and  was 
always  stroking  his  long,  curly  beard.  I  was  very 
angry  at  the  trial.  I  could  see  quite  well  that  all  he 
was  thinking  of  was  showing  himself  off  with  his 
'Monsieur  le  President'  here,  and  his  'Monsieur 
1'Avocat-Generar  there.  Me  and  my  boy  and  his 
trouble,  it  was  all  the  same  to  him ! 

"The  worst  time  was  when  the  jury  went  out,  and 
we  were  waiting  in  the  court.  The  usher,  who  looked 


THE  LAST  VISIT  9 

after  the  jury,  came  in  before  they  did.  He'd  been 
taking  the  lamps  in  to  them  .  .  .  He  said  something 
to  the  lawyers.  And  they  looked  at  me. 

"When  they  brought  Henri  in  to  hear  the  sen- 
tence, he  stood  up  straight  and  listened.  Then  he 
looked  about,  as  if  he  was  trying  to  find  where  I  was. 
But  he  didn't  see  me.  Then  he  turned  to  the  police- 
man. He  touched  his  hat  as  he  passed  him.  And 
he  went  out  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 

"I  hadn't  said  anything  to  the  lawyer  about  Fanny, 
the  woman,  because  Henri  had  made  me  swear  not 
to  talk  about  her.  You'll  understand  I  didn't  like 
her,  because  it  was  her  that  had  made  all  our  trouble. 
And  then  she'd  never  done  a  thing  since  my  lad  was 
in  prison.  She'd  never  even  said  a  word  to  any  one 
about  it.  I  suppose  she  was  thinking  of  her  husband 
and  her  children  .  .  .  When  Henri  spoke  to  me 
about  her,  and  seemed  so  sad  not  to  see  her,  I  wanted 
to  tell  him  he  mustn't  blame  her.  But  I  never  could. 
I  felt  queer  about  it,  as  if  I  was  jealous  because  he 
thought  more  of  her  than  of  me.  I  knew  that  chil- 
dren were  like  that,  but  it  hurt  me. 

"The  lawyer  had  gone  to  Paris  to  try  and  get 
him  off.  Every  one  said  it  was  fine  of  him  to  put  him- 
self out  to  go  and  see  the  President  of  the  Republic. 
But  I  knew  he  did  it  because  it  pleased  him  to  make 
himself  talked  of,  and  to  see  the  President  .  .  . 
And  it  wasn't  any  good." 

"It  must  have  been  a  dreadful  time  for  you  I" 

"I'm  afraid  to  think  of  it,  Madame.  But  some- 
how sometimes  I  didn't  suffer  at  all,  I  didn't  think 
of  anything  at  all.  People  used  to  come  and  see  me 
at  nights.  They  used  to  talk  about  the  trial  and  one 


io  THE  LAST  VISIT 

thing  and  another.  I  used  to  make  hot  wine  for 
them.  It  used  to  seem  as  if  I  was  dreaming  it  all,  as 
if  nothing  had  happened. 

"Then  one  night,  all  of  a  sudden,  I  felt  it  was 
coming  soon,  and  I  lay  and  trembled  all  over.  And 
I  saw  I  must  always  try  and  find  out  overnight  which 
morning  it  was  going  to  be,  so  I  shouldn't  have  such 
an  awful  night  again,  being  afraid  of  what  I  should 
hear  when  I  got  up.  And  every  evening  when  it  grew 
dark  and  the  train  from  Paris  was  coming  in,  I  used 
to  wait  near  where  the  passengers  come  out.  That 
was  how  I  saw  the  man  with  his  two  assistants.  They 
had  on  gray  overcoats  and  soft  hats;  they  had  big 
packages  wrapped  in  canvas,  and  they  saw  them  put 
safely  on  a  lorry. 

"It  was  about  seven  o'clock  at  night.  I  had  seen 
Henri  the  morning  before,  and  I  was  to  go  and  see 
him  again  in  two  days.  I  could  not  part  with  my 
little  one  like  that  without  saying  good-by. 

"I  knew  I  wouldn't  be  allowed  in  the  prison  out  of 
hours.  But  I  had  talked  to  Monsieur  Bellot,  the 
chief  warder,  and  I  thought  he  might  let  me  in.  It's 
queer  how  you  remember  things,  but  I  can  always  see 
the  dish  of  potatoes  on  the  table  in  his  sitting-room. 
He  was  eating  with  his  lady  and  children.  I  went  in 
and  I  began  to  cry  and  couldn't  speak.  He  knew  all 
about  next  morning,  and  he  didn't  ask  me  what  I 
was  crying  for. 

"  'Monsieur  Bellot,'  I  says  to  him,  'I  must  see  him 
once  again!' 

"  'Ah,  Madame,'  he  says,  'that  I  can't  do.  I'd  lose 
my  place  here  if  I  did.' 

"But  when  he  saw  how  miserable  I  was,  he  had 


THE  LAST  VISIT  n 

pity  on  me,  and  he  said  I  could  go  with  him  on  his 
rounds  and  just  kiss  my  boy  as  I  passed  ...  So  we 
went  together  down  the  corridors.  It  was  a  very 
old  prison,  and  it  was  all  very  dark.  You  could 
hardly  see  the  lamps  at  the  end  of  the  corridors. 
Monsieur  Bellot  had  got  a  lantern,  but  the  light  only 
shone  on  the  ground. 

"We  went  up  to  the  second  floor,  and  we  stopped 
before  a  door. 

"  'It's  here/  says  he.    'Kiss  him  through  the  bars.' 

"  'Hucheux !'  he  says  quietly.  'Here's  some  one 
come  to  say  good-by  to  you !' 

"I  couldn't  see  him  through  the  bars,  but  I  could 
feel  he  was  there,  and  I  heard  him  say  softly: 

"  'Is  it  you,  Fanny?' 

"And  he  leant  his  face  against  mine,  and  kissed  me 
like  no  one  had  ever  kissed  me  in  my  life  .  .  ." 

"Poor,  poor  thing!  You  must  have  felt  broken- 
hearted at  his  thinking  of  the  other  .  .  ." 

"Me,  Madame?  I  never  thought  of  anything  like 
that.  He  was  so  happy !  so  happy !  I  could  feel  it  in 
the  way  he  kissed  me.  I  was  only  afraid  of  one 
thing,  and  that  was  that  he'd  find  out  it  wasn't  her. 
And  I  was  glad  that  the  warder  dragged  me  away. 
And  that  last  night  that  I'd  been  terrified  to  think  of, 
that  I'd  never  thought  that  I  could  live  through — 
well,  I  just  fell  asleep,  and  didn't  wake  till  late  in  the 
morning.  At  first  when  I  came  to,  I  felt  I  could 
never  get  up  again,  knowing  it  was  all  over.  Then  I 
thought  of  how  he  had  died  happy,  and  all  day  long 
I  sat  and  knitted  and  knitted,  not  saying  anything  to 
any  one,  at  a  jersey  with  big  stitches  that  I  had  just 
begun,  and  I  got  it  finished  in  the  day." 


ANDRfe  BIRABEAU 


ANDR£  BIRABEAU  is  distinctly  a  post-war  writer.  A  number  of 
his  contes  have  been  gathered  into  two  volumes,  the  first  of  which, 
Annette  et  son  Amtricain,  appeared  in  1919.  Since  then  there 
have  been  three  novels,  and  he  has  had  two  plays  produced. 


II 

THE  BARBER'S  MIRlACLE 


"T  THINK  I'll  call  at  the  barber's  as  I   come 

•*•    home,"  said  Monsieur  Berledin. 

Madame  Berledin  shrugs  her  shoulders. 

"But  your  hair  is  not  so  very  long!  And  if  you 
think  it  will  add  to  your  beauty  .  .  .  When  a  man 
earns  as  little  as  you  do,  he  has  no  business  to 
waste  money,  he  should  try  to  save  every  farthing. 
Still  .  .  ." 

The  "still"  means  consent.  M.  Berledin  loses  no 
time  in  shutting  the  door  behind  him,  and  once  safely 
outside,  smiles  happily.  It  is  not  that  he  finds  any 
pleasure  in  putting  himself  in  the  hands  of  the  bar- 
ber. His  "beauty" — good  heavens,  he  has  very  little 
illusion  about  himself!  Look  at  him:  is  there  any- 
thing of  the  dandy  about  the  lock  of  hair  that  pro- 
jects stiffly  from  beneath  his  hat,  the  beard  that  is 
neither  round,  nor  square,  nor  oval,  whose  hairs 
grow  in  a  tangled  mass  like  rank  grass  in  an  aban- 
doned garden,  the  mustache  that  droops  into  his 
mouth,  yellowed  by  tobacco,  a  trap  to  catch  drops  of 
wine  and  soup,  an  adornment  that  makes  M.  Berledin 
look  like  a  kindly,  rough-haired  terrier?  He  would 
willingly  give  up  the  services  of  clippers  and  scissors 
for  months  at  a  time;  in  fact,  he  finds  that  a  mass  of 

is 


16  THE  BARBER'S  MIRACLE 

thick,  long  hair  is  very  useful  in  affording  a  good 
grip  for  his  hand  when  he  is  pursuing  some  fugitive 
idea. 

But  M.  Berledin  has  his  little  stratagems.  It  is 
impossible  to  know  how  long  you  may  be  kept  at  the 
barber's;  one  hour,  an  hour  and  a  half,  two  hours 
even  .  .  .  What  can  Madame  Berledin  answer  when 
she  is  told  in  an  innocent  tone,  "There  were  ten  oth- 
ers before  me,"  or  "My  dear,  the  assistant  was  short- 
sighted, and  cut  my  hairs  one  by  one."  Madame 
Berledin  has  not  the  slightest  suspicion  that  her  hus- 
band enters  the  shop  like  a  hurricane  with  a  "Quick! 
It  doesn't  matter  how  it's  done,  but  be  quick!"  that 
as  soon  as  it  is  over,  brushing  aside  the  hand-mirror 
presented  by  the  capillary  expert,  and  disdaining  the 
small  boy  with  the  clothes-brush,  he  looks  at  his 
watch  and  reflects,  "I  have  at  least  thirty-five  min- 
utes !"  and  off  he  goes,  almost  at  a  run,  to  the  quays, 
diving  with  delight  into  the  dusty  boxes  of  the  sec- 
ond-hand booksellers.  Happy  minutes — and  always 
more  than  thirty-five,  for  M.  Berledin  grants  himself 
various  extensions  of  time.  Couldn't  there  have  been 
still  one  more  client  before  him  at  the  barber's? 

In  the  atmosphere  of  these  dirty,  discolored 
books,  M.  Berledin  becomes  another  person.  Life 
seems  well  worth  living,  inspired  as  he  is  by  the  hope, 
ever  fervent  though  never  realized,  of  making  some 
wonderful  discovery  during  his  search  among  the 
volumes  .  .  .  While  he  handles  the  books  he  feels 
as  if  he  owns  them.  He  reads  a  word  here,  a  sen- 
tence there,  touches  on  a  hundred  different  subjects, 
and  no  idler  strolling  along  the  boulevard  to  look  at 
the  pretty  women  who  pass  by  is  as  happy  as  he. 


THE  BARBER'S  MIRACLE  17 

But  these  blissful  half-hours  are  seldom  enjoyed 
by  M.  Berledin.  Madame  Berledin  is  a  very  diffi- 
cult person.  Severe  and  disagreeable,  she  talks 
loudly,  gives  harsh  orders,  and  nags  incessantly.  He 
is  never  allowed  a  minute  for  quiet  meditation.  She 
has  completely  forgotten  how  delighted  she  was, 
lacking  beauty,  youth  and  fortune,  to  come  across  a 
man  who  would  marry  her;  she  now  believes  she 
could  have  made  a  much  better  match,  and  blames 
her  husband  for  having  proposed  to  her.  She  taunts 
him  with  his  modest  tastes,  his  unselfish  gentleness, 
and  the  small  sum  he  earns  by  writing  dry  articles 
for  philosophic  magazines.  Seeing,  however,  that  he 
is  unfitted  for  any  other  work,  she  keeps  him  at  it, 
morning,  noon  and  night,  with  his  study  door  half- 
open  so  that  she  may  see  that  he  does  not  sit  yawning 
or  waste  time  in  smoking  cigarettes. 

Mr.  Berledin  bows  his  back  to  his  burden,  for  he 
cannot  stand  quarrels  and  scenes,  but  he  dissembles, 
and  the  visit  to  the  barber's  is  one  of  his  stratagems. 

To-day  he  will  certainly  have  three-quarters  of  an 
hour  to  himself;  an  empty  chair  stands  waiting  for 
him. 

"A  hair-cut,  and  trim  my  beard.  As  quickly  as 
possible !" 

He  puts  on  the  wrapper  himself  to  save  time. 
Alas !  the  assistant  stems  t<5  be  of  the  chattering  sort. 
He  is  a  tall,  thin  young  man,  clean-shaven,  with 
feverish  eyes,  who  gesticulates  freely  and  makes  re- 
marks to  himself  as  well  as  to  the  client.  M.  Berle- 
din decides  to  rout  him  by  a  masterly  silence. 

"Hair-cut  and  trim  the  beard?  .  .  .  Very  good, 
sir.  Quite  short,  I  suppose?  The  clippers?  No? 


i8  THE  BARBER'S  MIRACLE 

You  are  wrong.  It's  very  bad  to  wear  the  hair  long. 
This  hot  weather,  too,  and  it  is  frightfully  close  to- 
day ...  It  is  extremely  bad  to  have  such  a  lot  of 
hair  on  the  head.  It  weighs  you  down.  I  couldn't 
stand  it;  when  I  found  how  hot  it  was  this  morning, 
I  took  all  mine  off.  I  had  curly  hair  and  a  mus- 
tache, and  off  they  came.  Clean.  Yes,  sir,  clean  off ! 
Let  me  try  the  clippers.  You  won't?  You're  making 
a  mistake.  When  it's  so  hot,  so  very  hot  .  .  .  Your 
head  a  bit  to  the  right,  please.  Besides,  men  oughtn't 
to  be  allowed  to  have  long  hair.  Yes,  sir,  long  hair 
ought  to  be  forbidden.  All  vices  have  their  origin 
in  the  hair.  The  clippers,  sir,  the  clippers — that's  the 
remedy.  For  everything.  What  was  Samson?  A 
bully  and  a  brute.  Delilah  comes  along.  She  uses 
the  clippers,  and  immediately  Samson  becomes  inof- 
fensive .  .  .  What  do  they  do  to  reclaim  convicts? 
They  clip  them  .  .  .  To  make  soldiers  brave  and 
disciplined  ?  Clip  them  .  .  .  The  clippers !  the  clip- 
pers !  The  head  to  the  left,  if  you  please.  A  beard 
is  a  mask,  and  so  is  a  mustache.  People  don't  see 
you  as  you  are  if  you  wear  a  beard  and  mustache; 
you  deceive  them.  Clean-shave  a  man,  and  he  will 
appear  as  he  really  is.  Clippers !  Clippers !  Napo- 
leon, what  was  he  ?  Clean-shaven.  It  is  the  only  way 
to  settle  social  problems.  You  watch  and  see  how 
few  love-crimes  there  will  be  when  I  have  passed  my 
clippers  over  the  head  of  every  woman  in  Paris.  I 
went  to  explain  this  to  Poincare.  He  wouldn't  listen 
to  me.  He's  got  a  beard.  All  politicians  have 
beards.  But  I  mean  to  run  my  clippers  through  every 
beard.  If  life  is  full  of  misery,  it  is  because  God  has 
a  beard.  But  I'll  run  my  clippers  through  His  beard, 


THE  BARBER'S  MIRACLE  19 

too!  All,  all  of  them — the  bristly  pigs!  I'll  clip 
them!  I'll  clip  them!  I'm  the  great  clipper  .  .  . 
Ah!  Ah!  .  .  .  Ah!  .  .  ." 

They  succeed  in  rescuing  M.  Berledin  from 
these  formidable  hands.  It  is  a  much  more  difficult 
task  to  master  the  Great  Clipper;  he  has  jumped  up 
on  the  marble  basin  where  he  brandishes  his  clippers 
and  scissors  in  a  most  disconcerting  manner.  At  last 
he  slips  on  a  piece  of  soap  and  falls,  and  they  take 
him  away.  The  saloon  is  in  a  ferment  of  emotion. 
The  assistants  argue. 

"Who  could  have  suspected  it?  Of  course  he  has 
seemed  a  bit  strange  these  last  few  days  ...  It 
must  be  the  heat  .  .  .  It's  lucky  for  you,  sir," — 
they  turned  to  M.  Berledin — "that  he  didn't  happen 
to  have  a  razor  in  his  hand!" 

Probably  it  was  very  lucky  for  M.  Berledin,  but 
that  does  not  make  his  condition  less  deplorable. 
Shrinking  with  fear,  he  had  not  been  able  to  stave  off 
the  assault,  and  three  drives  with  the  clippers  are 
quickly  inflicted.  The  Great  Clipper  had  plied  his 
instrument  haphazard  and  with  great  force ;  the  first 
stroke  had  done  nothing  but  cut  a  great  gash  in  the 
hair  above  the  right  temple,  but  the  second,  starting 
at  the  left  ear,  had  reached  the  middle  of  the  head, 
and  the  third  had  traced  an  irreparable  ravine  right 
through  one  side  of  the  beard.  The  assistants  who 
gather  around  the  poor  man  have  difficulty  in  hiding 
their  amusement.  The  proprietor  alone  is  anxious; 
he  apologizes  profusely  and  murmurs  reassuring 
words : 

"The  damage  is  not  beyond  repair,  sir  ...  there's 
no  doubt,  I'm  afraid,  that  the  head  must  be  close- 


20  THE  BARBER'S  MIRACLE 

cropped,  but  we  can  still  make  something  of  the 
beard.  .  .  .  What  do  you  think,  Alcide?" 

Alcide  is  the  most  experienced  artist  in  the  estab- 
lishment. He  does  not  reply  at  once.  He  shakes 
his  head  doubtfully.  It  will  be  a  delicate  piece  of 
work.  But  Alcide  has  talent,  and  is  proud  of  his 
skill.  Finally  he  says : 

"I  can  certainly  leave  a  tuft  below  the  lip  .  .  ,: 
even  an  Imperial  .  .  .  Perhaps  I  might  manage  a 
Royal.  But  I  only  say  'perhaps.'  We  shall  see." 

Alcide  is  too  modest.  He  succeeds  admirably,  and 
here  is  M.  Berledin  adorned  with  an  Imperial  as  trim 
as  if  he  had  always  worn  it.  M.  Berledin  stares  in 
the  glass  with  amazement.  He  does  not  recognize 
himself.  It  is  thirty  years  since  he  saw  his  cheeks, 
and  they  surprise  him.  They  are  two  round  cheeks, 
young,  unwrinkled,  and  tinged  with  rose. 

"It's  odd,"  says  M.  Berledin.    "It's  very  odd." 

He  would  have  liked  to  go  on  looking  at  himself 
for  a  long  time.  He  is  full  of  conflicting  feelings: 
astonishment,  sadness,  and  also  some  pleasure.  .  .  . 
This  is  how  ihe  used  to  look  at  twenty,  when, 
full  of  ardor,  self-confident,  and  audacious,  he  used 
to  hold  forth  in  the  student's  club  and  write  violent 
attacks  on  members  of  the  Academic  for  the  minor 
press. 

And  he  can  also  see  in  this  face  the  features  of  his 
dashing  brother,  the  Captain  in  the  Merchant  Serv- 
ice. M.  Berledin  keeps  on  staring  at  himself. 

"Me — can  it  possibly  be  me?" 

When  he  gets  up  to  leave  the  shop  the  proprietor 
is  still  making  excuses.  Preoccupied,  Mr.  Berledin 
murmurs : 


THE  BARBER'S  MIRACLE  21 

"It  doesn't  matter  ...  it  doesn't  matter  at  all 
.  .  . 

He  is  not  sincere.  He  knows  perfectly  well  that 
it  does  matter.  The  proof  lies  in  the  fact  that  in- 
stead of  going  down  the  boulevard  towards  the  quays 
where  the  dusty  books  are  waiting  for  him  in  their 
boxes,  he  turns  the  other  way.  What  will  Madame 
Berledin  say?  There  will  be  a  scene,  of  course.  The 
injustice  of  it !  As  if  toe  could  have  guessed  when 
he  took  that  seat  in  the  barber's  that  he  was  placing 
himself  in  the  hands  of  a  lunatic.  And  those  unjust 
scenes  are  the  worst  of  all;  she  is  always  more  vio- 
lent when  she  is  in  the  wrong. 

M.  Berledin  literally  dare  not  go  home.  The 
quiet  garden  of  the  Luxembourg  is  there  before  him, 
a  delightful  refuge  for  the  idle.  M.  Berledin  takes 
his  uneasiness  and  fears  to  the  cool  paths  where  the 
shade  from  the  big  trees  spreads  out  like  water.  He 
sits  down  on  a  bench  where  two  youths  are  talking 
with  great  animation.  They  are  discussing  military 
matters  with  more  heat  than  knowledge;  one  of  them, 
thwarted  and  at  the  end  of  his  arguments,  turns  sud- 
denly towards  M.  Berledin  saying: 

"Sir,  will  you  give  your  opinion  ?  One  sees  at  once 
that  you  have  been  an  officer  .  .  .  your  face,  your 
bearing,  everything  about  you  .  .  .  Am  I  right  in  con- 
tending that  the  system  of  fortifications  .  .  ." 

M.  Berledin  confesses  with  some  confusion  that 
he  is  merely  a  philosopher.  With  some  confusion, 
but  also  with  much  inward  satisfaction.  Does  he 
really  give  this  impression  of  robust  military  self- 
confidence?  To  be  sure,  he  is  not  fifty  yet,  but  .  .  . 

Involuntarily  he  throws  back  his  shoulders,  holds 


22  THE  BARBER'S  MIRACLE 

up  his  head,  handles  his  stick  more  smartly,  and  walks 
along  the  path  with  firmer  tread.  A  young  woman 
crosses  his  path  and  smiles  at  him.  And  a  very 
charming  smile,  too.  No  doubt  it  is  that  young 
woman's  business  to  smile  at  people  like  that,  but 
would  she  even  have  looked  at  the  M.  Berledin  of  an 
hour  ago  with  his  fuzzy  beard,  drooping  mustache 
and  air  of  philosophic  resignation?  .  .  .  The  new 
M.  Berledin  no  longer  thinks  of  leaving  the  cool 
garden  with  its  shady  paths,  fountains  and  statues, 
and  it  is  no  longer  only  fear  that  keeps  him  there; 
it  is  also  the  thought  of  the  deadly  weariness  of 
seeing  Madame  Berledin  .  .  . 

Thirty  years  ago  he  walked  these  same  paths  full 
of  ambition.  The  most  august  institution  inspired 
no  fear  in  him  in  those  days,  nor  in  those  days  could 
a  young  woman  have  smiled  at  him  with  impunity. 
M.  Berledin  suddenly  becomes  aware  that  for  twenty- 
five  years  he  has  never  thougiht  of  any  woman  but  his 
wife,  and  it  makes  him  wonder — and  feel  sad.  He 
admits  that  he  has  never  even  dared  to  wish  to  do 
so;  he  has  been  too  afraid  of  his  wife.  Not  at 
first,  for  he  was  in  love  with  her,  but  as  she  grew 
more  and  more  dominating,  he  >had  grown  more 
humble,  and  she  had  soon  become  a  tyrant. 

M.  Berledin  discovers  that  for  twenty-five  years 
he  has  been  a  poor  worm.  And  he  thinks  of  his 
brother,  the  sea-captain,  who  has  a  sweetheart  in 
every  port,  sweethearts  who  adore  him,  and  who 
will  stand  anything  from  him;  his  brother,  the  sea- 
captain,  whom  he  now  resembles  with  his  Imperial 

Dusk  is  falling  when  at  last  he  goes*  home.     A 


THE  BARBER'S  MIRACLE  23 

woman,  so  taken  aback  that  she  forgets  to  be  furi- 
ous, is  waiting  for  him  .  .  . 

"Good  heavens!  Who  are  you?  How  did  you 
get  the  latch-key?  What — you!  What  have  you 
been  doing  to  yourself?  .  .  .  You  look  absurd — 
ridiculous!  And  coming  in  late  like  this!  Where 
have  you  been?" 

Quite  naturally,  and  without  any  premeditation, 
M.  Berledin  makes  an  amazing  reply: 

"Be  quiet!  If  I  choose  to  have  my  beard  trimmed 
— and  if  I  choose  to  come  in  late — I  suppose  I  am 
master  in  my  own  house?" 

The  words  suit  his  looks  so  exactly  that  Madame 
Berledin  stands  thunder-struck.  And  without  a  word, 
she  lowers  her  eyes  and  bows  her  head. 


RENE  BIZET 


REN£  BIZET,  born  in  Paris  in  1887,  is  a  comparatively  new 
•writer.  He  made  his  literary  debut  with  a  volume  of  verses,  Une 
Histoire,  published  in  1910.  A  volume  of  contes  entitled  Le 
Sierne  Hurle,  published  in  1919,  is  typical  of  his  style  and  flavor. 
The  conte  we  give  here,  "A  Good  Old  Sort,"  appeared  in  Le 
Journal. 


Ill 

!A  GOOD  OLD  SORT 


FT  was  a  soaking  rain.  It  soaked  the  sky,  the 
•••  roofs,  the  walls;  it  soaked  even  the  ceiling  of  a 
certain  cafe,  sole  refuge  of  the  tourist  stranded  at 
Beltesse-sur-Isle  for  his  sins,  and  the  bugbear  of 
commercial  travelers. 

Despite  his  sixty-five  years,  M.  Alfred  Lardin 
made  its  melancholy  acquaintance.  Sent  to  the  town 
by  Ducoin,  Dubois  &  Cie.  (a  house  well  known  in 
the  business  world  of  Paris,  but  without  interest  for 
the  Beltessians)  to  get  orders  for  boot-laces,  he  had 
in  vain  bombarded  all  the  shops  with  samples.  He 
had  been  given  the  order  of  the  boot  in  another 
sense,  as  if  they  were  afraid  that  he  concealed,  under 
the  innocent  guise  of  his  useful  wares,  some  danger- 
ous and  deadly  explosive. 

Crestfallen,  he  had  drifted  into  the  cafe,  that  har- 
bor where  the  commercial  traveler,  like  an  old 
ship,  puts  in  to  refit  his  tackling.  He  watched 
through  the  windows  the  rain  falling  in  floods,  and 
ever  and  anon  his  eyes  wandered  to  the  landlady  who 
sat  in  a  state  of  hard-breathing  somnolence.  The 
spirit  of  dullness  coiled  about  all  the  upholstery,  like 
a  famished  and  too  affectionate  cat. 

To  rouse  himself,  M.  Alfred  gave  a  call.  The 

27 


28  A  GOOD  OLD  SORT 

landlady  woke  with  a  start;  the  dusty  and  witch-like 
head  of  a  servant-girl  was  thrust  through  a  doorway. 

"A  pack  of  cards!"  he  ordered. 

This  was  brought  him,  and  the  gas  was  turned  up. 
And  under  the  sickly  lights  of  the  fluttering  jets,  M. 
Alfred  made  combinations  which  would  not  com- 
bine, as  always  happens  in  such  cases,  and  as  only 
too  frequently  happened  in  his. 

All  of  a  sudden,  carriage-wheels  were  heard  out- 
side; then  they  stopped.  The  door  opened.  Six 
persons  entered,  three  men  and  three  women,  the 
former  with  faces  clean-shaven,  blue  with  cold,  lined 
with  minute  wrinkles,  and  not  too  prepossessing;  the 
latter  with  golden  hair  straggling  over  highly-rouged 
features,  which,  without  that  embellishment,  would 
have  claimed  the  respect  due  to  advanced  years. 
Their  entry  caused  a  sort  of  panic.  The  servant 
came  on  the  scene  with  excited  exclamations,  and 
spinning  about  all  ways  at  once.  "Here,  stop  all 
this  rushing  round,"  called  out  one  of  the  arrivals 
in  a  deep  voice,  "and  bring  us  some  steaming  hot 
grog!" 

M.  Alfred  threw  down  his  cards,  took  stock  of 
himself  in  a  glass  where  the  flies  had  left  abundant 
traces  of  their  social  gatherings,  and  by  way  of  mak- 
ing his  presence  known,  coughed  politely.  There- 
upon, as  if  by  common  impulse,  the  six  persons 
turned,  gave  him  nods  of  acknowledgment,  and  sat 
down  by  his  side.  The  servant  continued  her  frantic 
revolutions.  The  landlady  had  vanished  into  some 
unknown  underground  region. 

"What  a  comforter  it  is!"  exclaimed  one  of  the 


A  GOOD  OLD  SORT  29 

golden-haired  ladies,   apparently   referring  to   the 
grog. 

"What  weather  it  is!"  sighed  another. 

"Fat  lot  of  receipts  we  are  likely  to  take !"  whim- 
pered a  tearful-looking  gentleman. 

Though  he  had  not  a  discerning  eye,  M.  Alfred 
thought  he  might  be  justified  in  the  opinion  that  he 
had  the  honor  of  hobnobbing  with  comedians,  and 
derived  therefrom  so  much  pride  that  he  ventured 
to  introduce  himself. 

"M.  Alfred  Lardin,  commercial  traveler,  at  your 
service." 

"Delighted,  Monsieur!"  said  he  who  seemed  to 
be  the  manager  of  the  company.  "Miles.  Eliane, 
Lebon,  Josette;  MM.  Tambois,  Galon,  and  your 
humble  servant,  Charles  Pantu,  artistes  of  the  prin- 
cipal theaters  of  Foligny,  and  here  to  play  this  eve- 
ning in  our  masterpiece,  'So  Much  the  Worse  If  Your 
Sister  Is  111.'  " 

"Very  much  honored,  I'm  sure,"  declared  M. 
Alfred. 

And  then  they  lit  cigarettes.  They  discoursed  of 
plays,  of  artistes;  M.  Tambois  gave  an  imitation 
of  Sarah  Bernhardt;  M.  Galon  recalled  his  successes; 
the  atmosphere  of  the  cafe  became  animated  and 
blue  with  acrid  smoke.  It  was  good  to  be  there, 
snug  and  warm,  while  outside  the  sluices  of  a  sky 
gone  mad  seemed  to  be  opening. 

Suddenly,  in  one  of  those  pauses  which  are  said 
to  signify  the  passage  of  angels,  a  tragic  note  was 
struck.  "I  have  lost  my  part!"  screamed  Mile. 
Eliane.  Five  agitated  voices  were  raised  in  response 


30  A  GOOD  OLD  SORT 

to  this  heartfelt  cry.  M.  Alfred  thought  himself 
in  duty  bound  to  join  in  the  distressful  chorus. 

"Where  have  you  lost  it?"  asked  M.  Tambois. 

"How  do  I  know?  At  the  station  or  on  the  way 
to  the  hotel  when  I  opened  my  bag." 

Instinctively  every  one  turned  towards  the  street. 
They  could  hardly  distinguish  anything  now,  but  they 
heard  the  beating  of  the  indefatigable  rain  on  the 
panes,  as  on  a  drum,  as  if  it  were  keeping  time  to  a 
funeral  march. 

"Well,  rain  or  no  rain,  I  must  go  and  look  for  it," 
said  Mile.  Eliane. 

Her  companions  gazed  at  one  another,  hesitating 
between  duty  and  personal  comfort.  But  M.  Alfred 
left  them  no  time  to  display  their  gallantry.  He 
raised  his  hand  deprecatingly:  "I  won't  permit  it, 
Mademoiselle  ...  I,  myself  .  .  ."  one  of  the  gen- 
tlemen interposed.  Mile.  Eliane  made  up  her  lips 
into  the  form  of  a  grateful  smile.  The  obliging  old 
man  took  his  umbrella,  overcoat  and  hat,  and  went 
out  under  the  pelting  rain,  as  in  the  old  days  of 
siege-warfare  they  went  out  under  a  rain  of  grape- 
shot. 

"Good  old  sort,  that!"  said  M.  Galon. 


M.  Alfred  commenced  'his  search.  From  the  cafe 
he  went  up  to  the  station,  and  from  the  station  down 
again  to  the  cafe — a  good  three  miles  altogether. 
He  had  almost  to  swim  for  it.  He  rummaged  about 
in  gutters  swollen  into  torrents,  splashed  through 
puddles,  floundered  in  young  quagmires,  plunged  into 


A  GOOD  OLD  SORT  31 

treacherous  holes  full  of  mud,  absorbed  and  dripped 
water  like  a  super-saturated  sponge,  crouched  down 
over  miry  accumulations,  and  for  two  hours,  like 
some  heroic  diver  in  submarine  depths,  pursued  his 
exhaustive  inquisition.  [All  in  vain;  he  could  not  find 
the  manuscript.  He  fished  out  and  carried  back 
three  dirty  scraps  of  paper  which  might  perhaps 

At  last  he  opened  the  cafe  door.  He  presented 
himself,  a  horrible  object,  daubed  with  slime  and 
mud,  and  looking  like  a  cold-meat  pie,  ashamed  of 
his  failure,  yet  proud  of  the  sacrifice  he  had  made, 
the  extent  of  which  was  written  large  on  his  overcoat 
in  great  patches  of  clinging  mud. 

"Ah!"  shuddered  the  company. 

"Sorry,"  exclaimed  Eliane  briskly.  "I  have  found 
my  part  ...  It  was  in  the  pocket  of  my  water- 
proof." 

M.  Alfred  sustained  the  blow  without  wincing. 
"Have  you?"  he  murmured.  "Well,  well  ...  so 
much  the  better,"  and  came  forward  to  take  the  seat 
he  had  occupied. 

M.  Tambois,  his  nearest  neighbor,  shrank  from 
him  visibly.  M.  Alfred  did  not  notice  it.  He  took 
it  a  little  to  heart,  however,  that  they  made  no  fur- 
ther allusion  to  his  wanderings.  Mile.  Eliane  might 
at  least  have  given  him  a  smile.  But  the  conversa- 
tion of  the  company  slipped  away  from  the  subject 
altogether,  and  soared  into  the  regions  of  high  art, 
and  hotels  with  fixed  tariffs. 

M.  Tambois  suddenly  sniffed  with  unnecessary  em- 
phasis. "I  say  .  .  ."  he  exclaimed  .  .  .  "there's  a 
smell  as  if  some  old  poodle  was  in  the  rooml" 


32  A  GOOD  OLD  SORT 

Every  one  sniffed  with  emphasis.  It  was  true;  a 
smell  of  moist  dog  had  crept  insidiously  through  the 
apartment,  and  was  contending  successfully  with  the 
cheap  scents  with  which  the  feminine  charms  of  the 
company  were  intermingled. 

The  ineffable  M.  Alfred  intervened  promptly: 
"Don't  disturb  yourselves;  I'll  look  under  the  seats 
.  .  .  perhaps  it  is  the  house-dog."  And  before  any 
one  could  move,  he  was  on  ihis  knees  under  the  table 
looking  for  the  offending  animal. 

Such  a  display  of  innocence  exasperated  M.  Pantu. 

"Why,  it's  you  .  .  .  you  yourself  that  smell  like 
that  .  .  .  like  a  tank  of  stale  salt  beef  .  .  .  ugh! 
the  idea  of  coming  in  here  in  that  filthy  state  at  the 
risk  of  upsetting  these  ladies  who,  perhaps,  thanks 
to  you,  won't  be  able  to  get  through  their  parts  to- 
night .  .  ." 

From  beneath  the  table  M.  Alfred  raised  a  face 
dignified  by  resignation,  "Me?  You  really  think 
it's  me?" 

"I  haven't  a  doubt  of  it,"  said  Mile.  Eliane. 

The  old  man  got  on  his  feet  with  a  heartbroken 
look  and  trembling  lips,  a  ridiculous  but  touching 
figure  with  the  air  of  a  very  poor  man  who  is 
ashamed  of  his  poverty.  And  quietly,  without 
demonstration,  strewing  low-voiced  apologies  like 
bunches  of  withered  violets,  he  went  out.  The  rain 
was  still  falling  persistently,  falling  as  if  it  would 
never  stop. 

"Good  old  sort,  that !"  said  M.  Galon  once  more. 

"I  thought  he  wasn't  going  to  take  the  hint,"  re- 
marked M.  Tambois. 

"You  see,  my  dears,  that's  just  how  it  is,"  ex- 


A  GOOD  OLD  SORT  33 

plained  M.  Pantu  to  the  ladies,  shrugging  his  shoul- 
ders. "It's  this  sort  of  thing  that  disgusts  me  with 
being  on  tour.  .  .  .  One  has  to  mix  with  all  kinds 
of  inferior  people  .  .  ." 


BOUTET 


FR£D£RIC  BOUTET,  one  of  the  best-known  of  the  younger  con- 
teurs,  has  published  several  volumes  of  short  stories,  and  several 
novels,  the  latest  of  which  is  Lucie,  Jean  et  Jo.  He  is  a  regular 
contributor  to  the  celebrated  short-story  column  of  Le  Journal,  in 
which  paper  "The  Force  of  Circumstances"  first  appeared. 


IV 

FORCE  OF  CIRCUMSTANCES 
By  FREDERIC  BOUTET 

ONE  afternoon  when  the  boulevards  were  crowd- 
ed, the  Portly  Gentleman  suddenly  felt  some- 
thing strange  moving  in  the  pocket  of  his  overcoat, 
and  made  a  quick  grab  at  it.  He  seized  a  small, 
icy-cold  hand,  and  gripped  it  with  all  his  strength, 
which  was  considerable.  At  the  same  moment  he 
heard  a  moan  of  pain,  and  caught  sight  of  the  thief; 
it  was  a  little  boy  in  rags,  so  thin  that  the  bones 
seemed  to  be  coming  through  his  skin,  and  green 
with  a  fear  that  prevented  him  from  moving  or 
speaking. 

The  first  impulse  that  moved  the  Portly  Gentle- 
man was  indignant  anger: 

"You  little  thief!  You  young  blackguard!  At 
your  age !  Putting  your  hand  into  other  people's 
pockets!  Just  wait  till  I  get  a  policeman!" 

The  youngster  did  wait,  livid,  distraught  with 
fear.  Shaken  like  a  plum-tree  by  the  Portly  Gentle- 
man, he  seemed  likely  to  fall  in  pieces,  but  he  re- 
mained silent  and  resigned.  A  crowd  gathered,  and 
gave  vent  to  the  various  platitudes  by  which  people 
like  to  explain  what  everybody  understands. 

The  Portly  Gentleman,  dragging  or  rather  carry- 
ing the  child  with  him,  took  several  furious  steps. 

37 


38  FORCE  OF  CIRCUMSTANCES 

But  he  was  naturally  a  good-hearted  man,  and  he 
had  a  vague  idea  of  the  meaning  of  philanthropy. 
He  suddenly  became  conscious  of  the  extraordinary 
contrast  they  presented;  he,  enormous  in  his  rich  fur 
coat;  the  thief,  so  tiny  in  his  tatters.  He  felt  con- 
fusedly the  strange  inferiority  of  being  the  complain- 
ant in  such  circumstances.  Besides,  the  crowd  an- 
noyed him. 

"Wait  a  bit,  I'll  take  you  there  in  a  cab,  to  the 
police-station,"  he  said. 

He  called  a  taxi,  and  pushing  the  still  unresisting 
child  into  it,  set  him  down  on  the  front  seat,  still 
keeping  a  grip  on  him. 

"Now  then,  tell  me  the  truth,"  he  ordered  in  a 
terrible  voice.  "What's  your  name?  How  old  are 
you?  What  do  your  parents  do?  How  long  have 
you  been  a  pickpocket?" 

But  the  thief  broke  into  such  convulsive  sobs  that 
the  Portly  Gentleman  was  afraid  he  would  be  suf- 
focated, and  alarmed,  he  tried  to  soothe  him: 

"Don't  cry;  answer!" 

A  shrill,  small  voice  filtered  through  the  sobs. 

"I'm  nine."  (He  looked  six.)  "Me  father  died 
two  years  ago.  Me  mother's  ill  and  can't  work. 
We've  got  nothin'  to  eat,  and  no  fire,  and  the  kids 
are  all  crying  .  .  ." 

"The  kids?"  asked  the  Portly  Gentleman  in  sur- 
prise. 

"Yes,  me  little  sisters;  there's  three  of  'em;  there's 
two  of  'em  dead.  I'm  called  Victor." 

The  Portly  Gentleman  loosed  his  hold  on  the  cold 
little  hands ;  he  looked  into  the  wan  little  face  where 


FORCE  OF  CIRCUMSTANCES  39 

the  tears  were  washing  furrows  in  the  dirt.  He 
snuffled: 

"Where  does  she  live,  your  mother?"  he  asked. 

The  child  gave  an  address  in  a  distant  quarter  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Gentilly.  The  gentleman  put 
his  head  out  of  the  window  and  gave  an  order  to 
the  driver.  The  driver,  on  his  box,  gave  a  start  of 
dismay. 

"You'll  at  least  give  me  the  return-fare,  sir,"  he 
complained,  disgusted. 

"Naturally,"  said  the  Portly  Gentleman. 

And  they  ran  past  the  police-station  without  stop- 
ping. 

The  child  was  a  little  calmer,  and  his  companion 
continued  his  questions : 

"Tell  me,  how  long  have  you  been  thieving,  and 
who  taught  you?" 

"This  is  the  first  time;  I  never  did  it  before. 
Ugene  showed  me  how." 

"WhoisUgene?" 

"I  dun'no.  He  spoke  to  me  in  the  street.  He's 
about  as  old  as  me.  But  he  knows  his  way  about; 
he's  clever.  He  showed  me  for  a  joke  ...  on  a 
drunk  man  .  .  .  but  I  didn't  take  anything  from  the 
drunk  man.  And  to-day  I  tried.  We'd  nothin'  but 
three  potatoes  all  day  yesterday.  And  the  kids  was 
all  crying.  .  .  .  And  they're  turning  us  out  of  our 
room.  And  this  morning  I  was  going  to  sell  some 
vi'lets  that  a  woman  that  lives  beside  us  gave  me, 
and  a  p'liceman  took  me  to  the  station  because  I 
hadn't  a  license,  and  they  took  the  vi'lets  away  .  .  . 
And  I've  got  to  give  ninepence  to  the  woman,  and  I'll 


40  FORCE  OF  CIRCUMSTANCES 

get  a  hiding  if  I  don't  pay  .  .  .  And  then  I  begged, 
and  no  one  gave  me  nothing  .  .  .  Then  I  tried  .  .  . 
I  tried  on  you  .  .  .  I'm  down  on  my  luck  .  .  .  You 
won't  have  me  put  in  quod,  sir,  will  you?  I  won't 
do  it  again,  I  promise  I'll  never  try  it  again !  I  don't 
know  what  me  mother  would  say  if  she  knew  .  .  . 
You  won't,  sir,  you  won't  put  me  into  quod?  .  .  ." 

"I'm  going  with  you  to  your  home  to  see  if  you've 
been  telling  me  the  truth,"  said  the  Portly  Gentle- 
man pompously.  "I  will  then  decide  what  I  am  go- 
ing to  do." 

Silence  fell  between  them  .  .  .  Though  he  was 
still  gulping  down  his  sobs,  the  child  began  to  take 
a  timid  pleasure  in  being  in  an.  automobile.  The 
Portly  Gentleman  tried  to  meditate  on  the  inequali- 
ties of  the  human  lot.  The  taxi  was  now  running 
through  a  district  unknown  to  this  fortunate  gentle- 
man who  lived  in  a  fashionable  part  of  Paris,  and 
considered  that  civilization  ended  at  the  Observa- 
toire.  They  passed  through  curious  streets,  some  of 
them  dangerous,  and  finally  they  stopped  before  a 
tumble-down  and  leprous  building. 

"You'd  better  be  as  quick  as  you  can,  sir.  This 
is  the  sort  of  place  where  people  get  murdered," 
said  the  chauffeur  between  his  teeth,  as  he  looked  at 
the  ragged  aborigines  who  crowded  to  their  doors  to 
see  the  taxi. 

But  they  were  only  the  inquisitive  poor,  and  the 
Portly  Gentleman  had  resolved  to  carry  it  through. 
Guided  by  his  thief,  he  stumbled  up  three  flights  of 
broken  and  evil-smelling  stairs,  and  went  into  a  room 
the  like  of  which  he  had  not  yet  seen,  for  it  con- 
sisted of  the  ceiling,  the  walls,  and  a  tiled  floor  on 


FORCE  OF  CIRCUMSTANCES  41 

which  were  two  mattresses,  two  broken  chairs,  a 
broken  table,  and  a  broken  and  empty  stove.  A 
wretched  woman  sat  at  a  gaping  window  sewing  at 
some  rags,  among  which  the  Portly  Gentleman  saw 
a  waxen-faced  infant  that  looked  as  if  it  were  dead. 
A  little  girl  of  eight  was  sorting  some  dirty  feathers 
in  a  corner  and  another,  still  smaller,  lay  shivering 
on  one  of  the  mattresses.  It  was  terribly  cold  and 
growing  dark. 

The  Portly  Gentleman  gazed  at  all  this  with  hor- 
ror. It  was  the  first  time  he  had  seen  a  poverty- 
stricken  home,  and  it  greatly  impressed  him.  A  sort 
of  sudden  shame  took  possession  of  him;  it  seemed 
to  him  as  if  'he  were  some  odious  oppressor,  and 
more  ridiculous  than  he  felt  a  little  while  ago  on  the 
boulevard.  He  had  prepared  some  magnanimous 
and  highly-moral  remarks,  but  he  could  not  remem- 
ber a  word  of  them.  But  he  was  obliged  to  say 
something,  for  the  woman  was  looking  at  him  in  stu- 
pefied amazement.  Making  a  violent  effort,  he  man- 
aged to  blurt  out  in  a  bleating  sort  of  voice : 

"It's  all  right  .  .  .  there's  nothing  wrong  .  .  .  the 
child  will  explain  .  .  .  it's  nothing  ...  a  mistake 
.  .  .  allow  me  .  .  ." 

A  coin  glittered  on  the  table.  The  Portly  Gentle- 
man was  already  floundering  down  the  staircase. 
Thoroughly  upset,  he  gave  a  sigh  of  relief  when  he 
found  himself  once  more  in  the  taxi  that  took  him 
back  to  his  own  world. 


Meanwhile,  in  the  garret,  the  bewildered  mother 
was  trying  to  get  some  explanation  out  of  Victor, 


42  FORCE  OF  CIRCUMSTANCES 

who  was  disinclined  to  give  any.  When  at  length 
she  got  at  the  truth,  she  burst  into  despairing  tears. 

"It  was  all  we  had;  my  God,  it  was  all  that  was 
left,  being  honest,"  she  sobbed.  "Your  poor  father 
would  sooner  'have  died  of  hunger  than,  touch  a 
ha'penny  that  wasn't  his.  .  .  .  My  God,  my  God, 
what  a  thing !  .  .  .  Victor,  my  little  Victor,  a  thief  I 
.  .  .  You,  a  thief!  What's  happened  to  you?  Have 
you  gone  mad?  My  God,  it's  not  possible !" 

But  Victor,  who  had  cried  so  bitterly  in  the  taxi, 
had  suddenly  become  impassive. 

"It  was  Ugene  that  showed  me,"  he  explained 
coldly,  "and  if  the  gentleman  didn't  say  anything 
.  .  .  he's  given  us  twenty  francs,  and  he  gave  me 
a  ride  in  a  taxi." 

"But  if  he'd  called  a  policeman,  you  wicked  boy, 
you'd  ha'  been  .in  prison." 

"Oh,  no.  Ugene  knows  how  to  work  it.  The 
gentlemen  never  put  you  in  quod.  It's  Ugene's 
father  who  told  him.  When  you  see  a  big  one  who 
looks  rich,  you  just  put  your  hand  in  his  pocket 
and  he  catches  you,  and  you  tell  him  you've  had 
nothing  to  eat  for  three  days  .  .  .  then  they  come 
to  your  house,  and  give  you  money.  You  needn't  be 
afraid«of  them;  you  never  get  worse  than  a  smack  on 
the  head;  when  you're  little,  they  don't  send  you  to 
quod.  Ugene's  been  doing  it  four  months,  and  he 
sometimes  gets  forty  francs  in  a  week.  His  father 
stops  in  bed  all  day,  like  as  if  he  was  ill  and  out  of 
work.  And  when  Ugene  comes  back  with  the  gen- 
tleman, his  father  pretends  he  wants  to  get  up  and 
give  Ugene  a  hiding,  and  he  tells  the  gentleman  he's 
honest  and — and  like  that.  And  the  gentleman  stops 


FORCE  OF  CIRCUMSTANCES  43 

him  hiding  Ugene,  and  gives  him  something  .  .  . 
sometimes  five  francs,  sometimes  more,  never  less. 
.  .  .  And  we  haven't  got  anything,  and  the  gentle- 
man can  see  it's  all  right  here  ...  I  got  to  do  some- 
thing 'cos  I'm  too  little  to  work." 

"But  not  that!  Never!  I  won't  have  you  doing 
that  .  .  .  Swear  that  you'll  never  do  it  again,  never, 
never  .  .  ." 

Victor  made  no  reply.  With  the  twenty  francs 
there  was  a  fire  in  the  stove,  soup,  corned  beef,  and 
they  were  able  to  pay  something  on  account  to  the 
landlord.  But  by  the  end  of  the  week  the  last  half- 
penny had  gone.  One  day  there  were  not  even  three 
potatoes  between  them,  and  Victor  went  out  to  gather 
vegetable  peelings  from  the  dustbins  to  make  soup. 

Next  day  he  looked  his  mother  resolutely  in  the 
face,  and  said: 

"I'm  going  out." 

She  cried  out:  "Victor!"  and  tried  to  hold  him 
back,  but  he  escaped  and  vanished.  She  went  back 
to  the  room. 

"Oh !  look,  mother,"  cried  the  eldest  of  the  little 
girls  an  hour  later,  "the  woman  next  door's  given 
me  these  bits  o'  coal  .  .  .  shall  I  make  a  fire?  We 
won't  be  so  cold." 

The  poor  woman  seemed  to  hesitate. 

"No,"  she  said  at  last,  her  face  flushing.  "It's 
better  not  to  have  a  fire  .  .  .  Suppose  your  brother 
meets  some  one  again  like  he  did  the  other  day  .  .  ." 

And  with  resignation,  the  pallid  infant  on  her 
knees,  she  sat  down  and  began  to  stitch  at  some  rags, 
preparing  the  scene. 


MAX  AND  ALEX  FISCHER 


MAX  and  ALEX  FISCHER,  two  brothers  who  always  write  in 
collaboration,  were  born  in  Paris — Max  in  1882,  Alex  in  1883. 
They  were  educated  at  the  Lycee  Condorcet,  and  made  their 
literary  debut  in  1900,  when  they  began  to  contribute  to  various 
papers,  and  had  several  one-act  plays  produced  at  the  Theatre 
des  Mathurins.  They  hav;  written  several  longer  plays,  three  or 
four  novels,  but  it  is  as  the  authors  of  amusing  short  stories,  the 
typical  conte  gal,  that  they  are  best  known.  "Army  Time"  comes 
from  a  volume  of  conies  called  L'Inconduite  de  Lucie. 


V 
ARMY  TIME 

By  MAX  AND  ALEX  FISCHER 

/COLONEL  SAINT-GALON  had  just  finished 
^  lunch.  His  orderly  brought  him  a  telegram. 
The  Colonel  read: 

"In  view  of  the  approaching  Grand  Manoeuvers, 
will  come  Saturday,  three  o'clock,  to  review  your 
garrison. 

LEQUEPY  DE  CH£NE, 
General  of  the  Brigade." 

Without  loss  of  a  moment,  Colonel  de  Saint-Galon 
sent  for  the  four  Commandants  of  the  I99th  of  the 
Line. 

"Dear  friends,"  he  announced  to  them,  "I  have 
just  received  a  telegram  from  M.  Lequepy  de  Chene. 
He  will  come  to  review  the  garrison  on  Saturday 
.  .  .  next  Saturday  ...  at  ..." 

The  Colonel  hesitated  for  a  moment.  "I  am  on 
excellent  terms  with  the  General,"  mused  he.  "The 
day  before  yesterday  he  allowed  me  to  offer  him  for 
his  collection  a  ravishing  sketch  by  Horace  Vernet. 
It  is  evident  that  if  he  wished  it,  I  can  to-morrow 
be  promoted  General,  I  also.  It  is  therefore  of  the 

47 


48  ARMY  TIME 

greatest  importance  that  the  review  of  Saturday 
should  be  beyond  criticism  .  .  .  Alas !  I  know  them, 
those  rascals!  They  are,  as  always,  capable  of  not 
being  ready  at  the  time  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  I  was  telling  you,"  he  pursued,  "that  M. 
Lequepy  de  Chene  will  come  on  Saturday  .  .  .  Sat- 
urday ...  at  ...  twelve,  noon.  Therefore  at  that 
hour  your  battalions  must  be  assembled  on  the  bar- 
rack square." 

In  great  haste  the  four  Commandants  returned 
to  their  quarters.  Without  loss  of  a  moment  each  of 
them  sent  for  the  four  captains  of  his  battalion. 

"My  friends,"  announced  each  of  the  Command- 
ants to  the  four  Captains  under  his  orders,  "I  have 
this,  minute  seen  the  Colonel.  The  General  of  the 
Brigade  will  review  the  garrison  on  Saturday  .  .  . 
next  Saturday  ...  at  ...  at  ..." 

Each  of  the  Commandants  hesitated  for  a  mo- 
ment. 

"I  am  on  excellent  terms  with  the  Colonel.  He 
allowed  me  last  week  to  offer  him  a  present  of  game. 
It  is  evident  that  if  he  wishes  it,  I  can  to-morrow 
be  promoted  Colonel,  I  also.  It  is  therefore  essen- 
tial that  I  should  offer  to  him  an  impeccable  review 
.  .  .  Alas!  I  know  those  lazy  rascals!  They  are, 
as  always,  capable  of  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  I  was  telling  you,"  resumed  each  of  the 
Commandants,  "that  the  General  will  come  on  Sat- 
urday .  .  .  Saturday  ...  at  eight  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  Therefore  at  that  hour  your  four  Com- 
panies should  be  assembled  on  the  barra.ck  square." 

In  great  haste  the  sixteen  Captains  returned  to 
their  quarters.  Without  loss  of  a  moment  each  of 


ARMY  TIME  49 

them  sent  for  the  eight  Lieutenants  in  his  Company. 

"Messieurs,"  declared  each  of  the  Captains  to 
the  eight  Lieutenants  under  his  orders.  "I  have  this 
moment  seen  the  Commandant.  The  General  of  the 
Brigade  comes  to  review  the  garrison  on  Saturday 
.  .  .  Saturday  ...  at  ...  at  ...  at  ..." 

Each  of  the  sixteen  Captains  hesitated  thirty  sec- 
onds. "I  am  on  excellent  terms  with  my  Comman- 
dant. He  accepted  my  invitation  to  lunch  ten  days 
ago.  It  is  evident  that  if  he  wishes  it,  I  can  to-mor- 
row be  promoted  Commandant,  I  also.  Attention 
that  there  is  prepared  for  him  a  review  of  the  best 
.  .  .  Alas!  I  know  them,  those  lascars!  They  are, 
as  always  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  I  was  telling  you,"  resumed  each  of  them, 
"that  the  General  will  come  on  Satur  .  .  .  No,  Fri- 
day .  .  .  yes,  Friday  .  .  .  you  hear,  Friday  at  four 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  So  at  that  hour  I  expect 
to  see  your  eight  platoons  assembled  on  the  barrack 
square." 

In  great  haste  the  thirty-two  lieutenants  returned 
to  the  barracks.  Without  loss  of  a  moment  each  of 
them  got  together  the  four  Sergeants  of  his  platoon. 

"Now  listen  to  what  I  have  to  say,  you  Sergeants. 
The  General  of  the  Brigade  ...  I  said  the  Gen- 
eral of  the  Brigade  himself  .  .  .  will  come  and  review 
the  garrison  on  Friday  .  .  .  Friday  ...  at  ... 
at  .  .  ." 

Each  of  the  thirty-two  Lieutenants  hesitated  fif- 
teen seconds.  "Get  on  well  with  my  Captain.  Al- 
lowed me  to  offer  him  five  vermouths  this  month. 
If  he  wishes  it,  can  be  a  Captain  to-morrow.  Atten- 
tion, Name  of  a  Pipe,  to  get  him  up  something  worth 


50  ARMY  TIME 

looking  at ...  Alas !  I  know  them,  the  swine !  They 
are  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  the  General  will  come  on  Friday,  at  ten. 
o'clock,  you  hear  me,  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
See  to  it  that  at  that  hour  your  sections  are  all 
assembled  on  the  barrack  square." 

In  great  haste  the  one  hundred  and  twenty-eight 
Sergeants  climbed  the  barrack  staircase.  Without 
loss  of  a  moment,  each  of  them  precipitated  himself 
into  his  room. 

"Fall  in  there!  .  .  .  Keep  your  ears  open,  and 
try  to  understand  what  you're  going  to  be  told.  The 
General  ...  I  said  The  GENERAL  and  not  'My 
Cousin'  .  .  .  he's  coming  to  review  the  garrison  on 
Friday  .  .  ." 

Each  of  the  hundred  and  twenty-eight  Sergeants 
hesitated  five  seconds. 

"Am  in  the  good  books  of  the  Lieutenant.  Let 
me  offer  him  two  cigarettes  on  the  march  last  month. 
A  word  from  him,  and  I'll  be  Sergeant-Major.  Must 
see  to  it,  Bon  Dieu,  that  I  dish  him  up  something 
good  .  .  .  Alas!  I  know  them  like  my  own  brother, 
the  dirty  lot  of  shirkers!  They  .  .  ." 

"Silence,  Bon  Dieu !  I  was  telling  you  the  Gen- 
eral's coming  here  on  Thursday  .  .  .  got  that?  .  .  . 
Thursday  .  .  .  Thursday,  Bon  Sang  de  Bois  .  .  . 
Thursday  at  one  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  See  to 
it  that  your  men  are  all  out  on  the  barrack  square 
at  that  time." 

In  great  haste  the  four  hundred  and  ninety-six 
Corporals  made  for  their  rooms. 

"Fall  in !  Get  a  move  on,  you  squint-eyed  blight- 
ers! Silence!  Nom  de  Dieu!  Stand  up!  Look 


ARMY  TIME        *  51 

out  for  yourselves !  .  .  .  The  General  of  the  Brigade 
.  .  .  didn't  say  the  'Canteen  Sergeant'  or  old  'Mother 
Jezebel'  .  .  .  he's  coming  to  review  the  garrison  on 
Thursday  .  .  ." 

Each  of  the  four  hundred  and  ninety-six  Corporals 
hesitated  half  a  second.  "Sergeant's  a  pal  o'  mine. 
Stood  him  half-a-pint  three  months  ago.  It's  him 
that  gets  the  leave  for  you.  No  mistake  about  review 
being  a  ..." 

"Shut  your  row,  Tonerre  de  Brest!  You  loud- 
mouthed blackguards  .  .  .  The  General's  coming 
Thursday  .  .  .  yes,  Thursday,  to-morrow  ...  to- 
morrow morning!  ...  At  a  quarter  to  five  .  .  .  No, 
at  half-past  four,  every  man  of  you'll  be  on  the  bar- 
rack square !  .  .  .  Now,  carry  on !  You've  got  no 
time  to  waste !" 

And  this  is  why  last  Saturday  the  General  of  the 
Brigade,  Lequepy  de  Chene — arriving  moreover,  at 
the  barracks  of  the  I99th  two  hours  late — muttered 
incessantly  to  himself  as  he  walked  up  and  down 
the  ranks  of  the  troops  who,  as  the  result  of  a  so- 
journ of  three  days  and  two  nights  on  the  barrack 
square  with  rifles  and  packs,  were  even  muddier  than 
the  Grenadiers  of  Napoleon  on  their  return  from  the 
Russian  Campaign: 

"Are  they  not  filthy,  Saperlipopette !  Are  they 
not  disgusting,  Saperlipopette  de  Saperlipopette! 
You  shall  hear  of  this,  Saint-Galon !  Oh,  I  shall  be 
obliged  to  send  in  a  pitiless  report  on  the  I99th, 
Saint-Galon!  It's  sickening,  positively  sickening,  to 
see  men  in  such  a  state  1" 


COLETTE  WILLY 


COLETTE,  who  in  real  life  is  Madame  de  Jouvenel,  was  born  in 
1873  at  Saint-Sauveur,  and  became  widely  known  in  1900,  when 
in  collaboration  with  her  first  husband,  the  well-known  author 
Willy,  she  wrote  the  first  of  the  Claudine  books,  four  volumes 
that  describe  the  schooldays  and  subsequent  life  in  Paris  of  a 
young  girl  from  the  provinces.  Since  then  she  has  written  a 
novel,  without  collaboration,  almost  every  year.  Official  recog- 
nition was  given  to  her  literary  gifts  last  year  by  the  bestowal  of 
the  Legion  d'Honneur.  The  conte  given  here,  "Gitanette,"  comes 
from  a  volume  called  I'Envers  du  Music  Hall. 


VI 
GITANETTE 


o'clock.  They  have  smoked  so  much  in  the 
-*•  Semiramis  Bar  to-night  that  my  compote  of 
apples  has  a  vague  taste  of  Maryland  tobacco.  .  .  . 
It  is  Saturday.  A  touch  of  holiday  fever  animates 
the  habituees,  suggesting  the  joys  of  to-morrow,  the 
happy  day  of  do-nothing,  the  morning  in  bed  fol- 
lowed by  the  excursion  in  a  taxi  to  the  Pavillion  Bleu, 
the  visit  to  relatives,  the  calling  for  children  who 
are  at  some  dreary  school  in  the  suburbs,  and  who 
will  be  brought,  this  beautiful  Sunday,  to  breathe 
the  pure  air  of  the  Chatelet  .  .  . 

The  Semiramis,  crowded  to  overflowing,  has  pre- 
pared a  monster  soup-pot  to  serve  as  a  massive  base 
for  the  Sabbath  dinner:  "Thirty  pounds  of  beef,  my 
dear,  and  the  giblets  of  six  fowls!  That  ought  to 
keep  them  quiet.  (An  entree  for  dinner  and  a  salad 
for  supper !  and  soup !  They  can  have  as  much  soup 
as  they  can  hold !"  Her  mind  at  ease,  the  proprie- 
tress smokes  her  eternal  cigarette,  smiling  like  a 
kindly  ogress  as  she  passes  from  table  to  table,  sip- 
ping mechanically  the  whisky-and-soda  she  carries  in 
her  hand.  Coffee,  bitter  and  strong,  is  growing  cold 
in  my  cup;  my  dog,  sneezing  with  the  smoke,  keeps 
begging  me  to  go  ... 

55 


$6  GITANETTE 

"Don't  you  remember  me?"  says  a  voice  close 
to  me. 

A  young  woman  in  black,  very  simply,  almost 
poorly  dressed,  is  looking  questioningly  at  me.  She 
has  dark  hair  that  hardly  shows  under  the  brim  of 
her  black  straw  hat  with  its  two  knife  feathers,  a 
white  collar,  a  little  cravat,  and  soiled  light  gray 
gloves  .  .  . 

Powder,  rouge  on  the  lips,  blackened  eyelids,  the 
indispensable  make-up,  but  it  has  been  laid  on  with 
a  careless  hand,  by  necessity,  by  habit.  I  reflect,  and 
suddenly,  the  beautiful  large  eyes,  of  a  brown-black 
that  shine  like  the  Semiramis  coffee,  remind  me : 

"But  it's  Gitanette!" 

Her  name,  her  absurd  music-hall  name,  comes 
back  to  me  with  the  memory  of  how  we  met. 

Three  or  four  years  ago  when  I  was  playing  in  a 
sketch  at  the  Empyree,  Gitanette  occupied  a  little 
dressing-room  next  to  mine.  Gitanette  and  her 
friend,  a  pair  of  "cosmopolitan  dancers,"  dressed 
there,  their  door  open  on  to  the  corridor  to  let  in 
the  air  ...  Gitanette  was  generally  dressed  like  a 
boy,  and  her  Friend — Rita  ?  Lina  ?  Nina  ? — appeared 
turn  by  turn  as  some  fantastic  character,  an  Italian, 
in  high  boots  as  a  Cossack,  draped  in  a  Spanish 
shawl  with  a  carnation  behind  her  ear  ...  A  nice 
little  couple  who  did  not  hide  their  devotion  to  one 
another;  Gitanette  was  the  leading  spirit,  and  she 
showed  an  almost  maternal  authority  in  the  way  she 
took  care  of  her  friend  .  .  .  The  friend,  Nina,  Rita, 
or  Lina,  I  have  almost  forgotten.  Hair  dyed  golden, 
bright  eyes,  white  teeth,  something  in  the  style  of  a 
young  washer-woman,  appetizing  and  untrustworthy. 


GITANETTE  57 

They  danced  neither  well  nor  badly,  and  their  his- 
tory was  that  of  most  "Dance  Numbers."  It  is 
young,  supple,  it  is  sick  of  the  bar,  full  of  women, 
and  the  promenade,  so  it  saves  all  its  poor  little 
coppers  to  pay  so  much  a  week  to  a  ballet-master 
and  a  costumier  .  .  .  And  if  it  has  extraordinary  luck, 
it  begins  to  get  little  engagements  in  Paris,  in  the 
provinces,  and  abroad  .  .  . 

Gitanette  and  her  friend,  then,  were  "doing  a 
turn"  at  the  Empyree  that  month.  For  thirty  eve- 
nings they  showed  me  the  discreet  and  disinterested 
attentions,  the  kind  reserve  and  courtesy  that  you 
frequently  find  behind  the  scenes  in  a  music-hall.  At 
the  moment  when  I  was  putting  the  last  touch  of 
rouge  under  my  eyelids,  they  would  run,  their  fore- 
heads moist,  their  mouths  trembling  from  shortness 
of  breath,  smiling  without  speaking  because  they 
were  panting  like  the  ponies  that  used  to  turn  the 
round-about  at  fairs.  When  they  had  a  little  recov- 
ered, by  way  of  "good  evening"  they  would  tell  me 
politely  that  the  house  was  full  and  in  a  good  temper, 
or:  "There's  no  pleasing  them  to-night!" 

Then  before  undressing  herself,  Gitanette  would 
unlace  the  bodice  of  her  friend,  throwing  over  her 
shoulders  a  kimono  of  printed  cotton  to  keep  her 
from  getting  a  chill,  and  the  little  animal,  Rita,  Nina, 
or  Lina,  who  always  looked  a  little  debauched,  would 
begin  to  laugh  and  chatter  and  swear:  "Be  very  care- 
ful," she  would  call  to  me,  "the  roller-skaters  have 
cut  into  the  floor,  and  it's  difficult  not  to  find  yourself 
on  your  nose  to-night !" 

The  voice  of  Gitanette,  quiet  and  grave,  would 
reply:  "It's  good  luck  to  have  a  tumble  .  .  .  It's 


$8  GITANETTE 

a  sign  you'll  do  a  turn  again  in  the  house  before 
three  years  are  out.  It  was  like  that  when  I  was 
dancing  at  the  Bouffes  at  Bordeaux;  I  caught  my 
foot  in  a  .  .  ." 

They  lived  out  aloud,  as  it  were,  beside  me,  their 
door  wide  open.  They  made  little  bird-like  noises, 
full  of  their  dancing  and  their  affection  for  each 
other,  happy  to  work  together,  to  take  refuge  in 
each  other,  protected  one  by  the  other  from  the  men 
who  hang  round  music  halls,  from  what  might  easily 
lead  to  dreary  prostitution  .  .  . 

All  this  comes  back  to  me  as  I  look  at  this  sad  and 
lonely  Gitanette,  so  changed. 

"Sit  down  a  moment,  Gitanette,  let's  have  some 
coffee  together  .  .  .  And  .  .  .  your  friend,  where 
Is  she?" 

She  sits  down,  shakes  her  head : 

"We  aren't  together  any  longer,  my  friend  and  me. 
You  haven't  heard  what  happened?" 

"No,  I  haven't  heard  anything  ...  Is  it  indis- 
creet to  ask  you?" 

"No!  Oh,  no!  You,  you  are  an  artist,  like  me 
,  .  .  that  is,  like  I  used  to  be,  because  now  I  am 
nothing.  I'm  not  even  a  woman  .  .  ." 

"It's  as  grave  as  that?" 

"Grave — that  depends  on  what  you  call  grave. 
It  depends  on  your  nature.  My  nature's  the  sort 
that  attaches  itself.  I  attached  myself  to  Rita;  she 
was  everything  in  the  world  to  me;  I  never,  never 
thought  it  could  change.  .  .  .  The  year  that  it  hap- 
pened we'd  been  having  a  great  success.  We  hadn't 
finished  dancing  at  the  Apollo  when  Salomon,  the 
agent,  wrote  to  us,  and  we  got  engaged  to  dance  in 


GITANETTE  59 

the  revue  at  the  Empyree,  a  magnificent  revue,  twelve 
hundred  costumes,  English  girls,  everything.  I  didn't 
much  care  about  it;  I  was  always  afraid  of  revues 
where  there  are  a  lot  of  women;  it  leads  to  disputes 
and  rivalries  and  scandal.  At  the  end  of  a  fortnight 
of  the  revue  I  was  wishing  we  were  back  doing  our 
little  turns  by  ourselves.  And  soon  I  was  longing 
for  it,  for  there  was  my  little  Rita  changing  towards 
me,  thinking  of  nothing  but  being  with  the  others, 
with  a  new  friendship  here  and  a  new  friendship 
there,  and  soon  she  was  always  having  champagne 
in  Lucie  Desrosier's  dressing-room,  a  fat,  red-headed 
lump  who  stank  of  brandy,  and  always  wore  corsets 
with  the  bones  broken  .  .  .  Champagne  at  twenty- 
three  sous  the  bottle.  I  ask  you  whether  you  can  get 
anything  good  at  that  price !  .  .  .  My  Rita  grew 
quarrelsome  and  very  hard  to  deal  with.  One  eve- 
ning what  did  she  do  but  come  into  the  dressing-room 
and  tell  me  some  one  had  been  making  love  to  her ! 
I  ask  whether  that  was  the  right  sort  of  way  to 
behave  to  me?  I  grew  more  and  more  miserable, 
and  everything  seemed  wrong.  I'd  have  given  any- 
thing to  have  got  an  engagement  at  Hamburg,  or  in 
the  Winter  Garten  at  Berlin,  so  as  to  get  away 
from  that  revue  which  seemed  to  be  going  on  for 
ever !" 

Gitanette  turns  towards  me  her  beautiful  coffee- 
colored  eyes;  they  are  full  of  pain,  and  all  the  life 
has  gone  out  of  them. 

"I'm  telling  you  exactly  how  things  were,  you 
understand.  Don't  imagine  that  I'm  inventing  or 
speaking  maliciously!" 

"Certainly  not,  Gitanette!" 


60  GITANETTE 

"That's  right.  Well,  one  day  my  bad  little  Rita 
came  to  me  and  said:  'Look  here,  Gitanette,  I  want 
a  petticoat' — they  wore  petticoats  that  year — 'and  a 
nice  one;  I'm  ashamed  of  mine.'  Of  course  it  was 
always  me  who  took  care  of  the  money,  or  else  we 
shouldn't  have  had  food  to  eat!  ...  I  asked  her  how 
much  it  would  cost.  'How  much,  how  much!'  she 
shouted  to  me,  'you'd  think.  I  hadn't  the  right  to 
buy  myself  a  petticoat!'  So  as  not  to  have  a  scene,  I 
just  said:  'Here's  the  key,  take  what  you  need,  but 
don't  forget  we  have  to  pay  the  month  for  our  room 
to-morrow!'  She  took  a  fifty-franc  note,  and  flung 
her  clothes  on  anyhow,  because  she  said  she  wanted 
to  be  at  the  Galeries  Lafayette  before  the  shop  grew 
crowded.  I  sat  down  to  mend  and  do  up  two  cos- 
tumes that  had  just  come  from  the  cleaners,  and  I 
sewed  and  I  sewed  as  I  waited  for  her  ...  It  was 
getting  late  when  I  found  that  I  should  have  to  get 
some  mousseline  de  soie  to  make  a  new  frill  for  a 
lining  to  one  of  Rita's  costumes,  and  I  rushed  out  to 
try  and  get  it  before  the  shop  shut  .  .  .  Just  telling 
you  about  it  makes  me  see  it  all  as  if  it  was  happen- 
ing at  this  very  minute.  As  I  hurried  out  of  the 
shop,  I  was  almost  run  over  by  a  taxi  that  drew  up 
at  the  curb,  and  what  did  I  see?  The  fat  Desrosiers 
getting  out  of  it,  untidy  and  hot,  and  waving  her 
hand  to  Rita,  to  my  Rita,  who  was  sitting  in  the  taxi ! 
.  .  .  My  head  went  round,  and  I  almost  fell  down, 
and  when  I  felt  better,  and  would  have  called  out  to 
Rita,  the  taxi  had  gone,  taking  Rita  back  to  our 
room  .  .  . 

"I  went  home  dazed;  of  course  she  was  there, 
Rita.  And  what  a  face  she  had!  .  .  .  you  want  to 


GITANETTE  61 

know  her  as  I  do  to  understand  a  face  like  that  .  .  . 

"It  won't  stand  thinking  about  .  .  . 

"I  couldn't  find  anything  to  say  except:  'And  your 
petticoat?'  'I  haven't  bought  one.'  'And  the  fifty 
francs?'  'I  lost  it.'  She  said  that  looking  in  my 
eyes,  and  her  eyes  .  .  .  But  you  can't  imagine  it 
.  .  .  you  can't  understand  .  .  ." 

Her  eyes  lowered,  Gitanette  feverishly  turns  her 
spoon  in  her  cup  .  .  . 

"It  was  like  a  knife  in  my  chest,  hearing  those 
words.  It  was  as  if  I  had  been  there  and  seen  it 
all  myself,  the  rides  in  the  taxi,  the  meeting,  the  visit 
to  the  bed-sitting-room  with  champagne  on  the  table, 
all,  all  .  .  ." 

Beneath  her  breath  she  keeps  on  repeating:  "All 
...  all  ..."  till  I  interrupt  her  with  a  : 

"And  what  did  you  do?" 

"Nothing.  I  cried  all  through  dinner  into  my 
plate  of  mutton  and  beans  .  .  .  And  then,  a  week 
afterwards,  she  left  me.  And  fortunately  I  fell  ill, 
dangerously  ill,  because  if  I  hadn't,  in  spite  of  loving 
her  as  I  did,  I  should  have  gone  and  killed  her  .  .  ." 

She  speaks  quietly  of  killing  and  dying,  still  turn- 
ing the  spoon  in  her  cold  coffee.  This  simple-minded 
girl,  who  lives  so  near  to  nature,  knows  that  just 
one  action,  easy,  nothing  violent  about  it,  is  all  that 
is  necessary  to  ease  her  sufferings  .  .  .  To  be  dead, 
•to  be  alive,  it  is  all  the  same,  except  that  you  can 
choose  death,  whereas  you  can't  choose  life  .  .  . 

"Did  you  want  to  die,  Gitanette?" 

"Of  course  I  did,"  she  says.  "Only  I  was  so  ill, 
I  couldn't.  And  when  I  came  out  of  hospital,  my 
grandmother  took  me  with  her  and  looked  after  me 


62  GITANETTE 

while  I  was  getting  well.  She's  very  old,  and  now  I 
feel  I  oughtn't  to  leave  her  .  .  ." 

"Besides,  you  are  getting  over  it  now,  aren't 
you?" 

"No,"  says  Gitanette  in  a  low  voice.  "And  I 
don't  want  to.  I  don't  want  to  feel  less  miserable. 
I  should  be  ashamed  to  console  myself  with  any  one 
else  after  having  loved  her  to  much.  Perhaps  you'll 
say  as  the  others  do:  'Amuse  yourself  .  .  .  time 
changes  everything  .  .  .'  I  know  that  time  changes 
most  things,  but  that  depends  on  the  person.  I've 
never  had  any  one  to  love  except  Rita;  it's  just  hap- 
pened like  that;  I  never  had  a  friend;  I  never  knew 
what  it  was  to  be  a  child,  because  my  parents  died 
when  I  was  a  baby,  but  when  I've  seen  lovers  happy 
together,  or  fathers  and  mothers  with  their  little 
children  on  their  knees,  I  used  to  say:  'I  have  all 
that  they  have,  because  I've  got  Rita!'  And  now 
that  I've  lost  her,  my  life  is  finished;  there's  nothing 
to  be  done.  Whenever  I  go  to  my  grandmother's, 
into  my  room,  and  see  the  photographs  of  Rita,  our 
photographs  in  all  our  turns,  and  the  little  dressing- 
table  where  we  both  used  to  do  our  hair,  every  time 
I  go  in,  it  all  begins  over  again,  and  I  cry,  and  I 
talk  to  her,  and  I  call  her  ...  It  makes  me  ill,  but 
-somehow  I  like  it.  It  is  a  funny  thing  to  say,  but  it 
seems  to  me  that  I  shouldn't  know  what  to  do  if  I 
wasn't  miserable  like  that.  It  seems  to  keep  me 
company." 


LUCIE  DELARUE-MADRUS 


LUCIE  DELARUE-MADRUS,  born  in  1880  at  Honfleur,  Normandy, 
has  related  the  story  of  her  childhood  in  her  novel,  Six  petites  filles. 
She  was  married  in  1900  to  Dr.  J.  C.  Madrus,  translator  of  the 
Thousand  and  One  Nights,  and  has  traveled  much  in  the  East 
Her  literary  career  began  in  1890  with  a  volume  of  poems,  since 
when  she  has  contributed  to  almost  all  the  leading  French  maga- 
zines, written  several  novels,  had  three  poetical  plays  produced, 
and  been  a  regular  contributor  to  the  short-story  column  of  Le 
Journal,  in  which  "The  Inheritance"  first  appeared. 


VII 
THE  INHERITANCE 

By  LUCIE  DELARUE-MADRUS 

HE  did  not  possess  any  of  the  things  that  make 
for  happiness,  and  he  was  not  happy.  Under- 
sized and  ugly,  he  had  never  been  loved,  nor  had  he 
ever  loved  any  one. 

Left  an  orphan  at  an  early  age,  'his  parents  having 
died  in  a  distant  country  where  business  had  taken 
them,  he  had  been  brought  up  by  strangers  who  had 
got  rid  of  him  as  soon  as  they  could.  An  insignificant 
employee  in  an  insignificant  office,  morose,  poor  and 
alone,  by  the  time  he  was  thirty  he  had  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  the  life  of  certain  beings  is  an  offense 
to  commonsense,  and  tired  of  his  mediocrity,  sick  of 
the  monotony  of  his  existence,  his  thoughts  turned 
to  suicide. 

Now,  thoughts  of  suicide  suggest  many  possibili- 
ties. The  man  who  can  see  the  insignificance  of  life 
cannot  be  quite  insignificant.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
Paul  had  been  born  with  a  capacity  for  passionate 
tenderness  and  for  action,  but  circumstances  had 
stifled  these  undeveloped  characteristics.  Timid,  he 
was  too  diffident  to  look  for  love;  modest,  he  lacked 
the  self-confidence  that  would  have  invented  for  him 
the  ambition  which  is  an  active  form  of  hope.  He 

65 


66  THE  INHERITANCE 

was  like  a  beggar  who  waits  for  the  alms  that  do  not 
come  because  he  does  not  hold  out  his  hand. 

.It  happened,  therefore,  that  the  idea  of  voluntary 
death  awakened  something  that  had  hitherto  slept 
in  the  depths  of  his  sluggish  mind.  The  thoughts 
that  rose  in  him  were  bitter,  but  they  produced  a 
kind  of  mental  intoxication.  He  felt  something  of 
the  exultation  that  animates  poets  and  lovers.  To 
die !  The  idea  lifted  him  above  the  drab,  unevent- 
ful days  and  nights,  filled  the  colorless  hours  with 
a  somber  lyricism. 

While  his  fellow-workers  were  writing  the  love- 
letters  they  kept  hidden  between  the  sheets  of  their 
blotting-paper,  he  sat  wondering  which  would  be  the 
best  way  to  put  an  end  to  himself.  There  was  no. 
one  he  wished  to  impress,  so  he  did  not  waste  time 
in  considering  picturesque  methods,  concentrating  in- 
stead on  trying  to  imagine  which  would  be  the  quick- 
est and  most  comfortable  manner,  entailing  the  least 
suffering,  and  sparing  him  fear  of  the  action. 

He  was  much  impressed  by  the  details  of  a  little 
tragedy  he  read  one  morning  in  the  newspaper,  and 
he  decided  that  skilful  hanging,  with  its  sudden 
breaking  of  the  vertebras,  would  produce  instant 
death. 

"I  will  give  myself  eight  days,"  he  thought,  "to 
get  used  to  the  idea." 

He  knew  that  certain  poisons  would  have  a  more 
rapid  result.  But  how  could  he  procure  them? 

About  the  seventh  day  the  men  in  his  office  began 
to  notice  that  there  was  some  change  in  him.  He 
had  the  look  of  some  one  sickening  for  an  illness,  but 
no  one  suspected  that  it  was  an  "illness"  that  meant 


THE  INHERITANCE  67 

death  next  night  No  remark  was  made  to  him, 
partly  because  one  does  not  make  such  comments, 
but  chiefly  because  no  one  cared  whether  he  was  ill 
or  well.  Paul  had  no  more  interest  for  them  than 
the  stove  or  the  high  stool;  less,  because  the  stove 
warmed  them  in  winter,  and  the  stool  was  useful 
when  they  had  to  reach  up  for  books  on  the  top 
shelves. 

The  eighth  day  came,  and  as  Paul  went  to  business 
in  the  morning,  he  stopped  at  a  shop  and  bought  a 
cord.  He  put  it  in  his  pocket,  and  arrived  at  the 
office  with  nervous  shiverings  that  made  his  teeth 
chatter. 

"He's  going  to  get  influenza,  and  we  shall  all 
catch  it,"  thought  the  others  angrily. 

He  walked  home  very  slowly  that  night.  His 
concierge  greeted  him  with  a  grumble;  she  prepared 
his  evening  meal,  the  only  one  he  had  at  home,  and 
he  was  late. 

"Don't  worry,"  he  said.  "I  don't  want  anything 
to  eat  to-night  .  .  ." 

The  nervous  shiver  returned  as  he  reflected  that 
these  were  the  last  words  he  would  speak  on  earth, 
and  that  they  were  as  insignificant  as  his  life.  But 
as  he  mounted  the  staircase,  the  woman  came  run- 
ning after  him. 

"I'd  forgotten,"  she  said.  "Here's  a  letter  for 
you." 

A  letter?  .  .  .  He  took  it  with  a  feeling  of  aston- 
ishment that  made  him  for  a  moment  almost  forget 
his  approaching  death. 

When  he  had  lit  the  lamp,  he  opened  it.  At  first 
he  failed  to  grasp  its  meaning.  A  solicitor?  .  .  . 


68  THE  INHERITANCE 

A  cousin  who  had  just  died?  .  .  .  He  had  not  known 
that  he  possessed  any  relatives.  He  read  the  letter 
over  again,  and  an  ironic  smile  crept  over  his  face 
as  he  realized  that  it  told  him  that  an  inheritance 
had  come  to  him  from  his  unknown  family,  and  that 
the  inheritance  was — a  vault  in  Pere  Lachaise  where 
there  was  one  last  vacant  place  at  his  disposal ! 

The  coincidence  seemed  too  striking  to  be  pos- 
sible, and  as  he  tried  to  realize  it,  new  thoughts,  com- 
plicated and  obscure,  passed  through  his  mind. 

The  Pharaohs  of  Egypt  had  their  tombs  con- 
structed during  their  lifetime,  and  visited  them  fre- 
quently out  of  respect  for  their  own  images  which 
were  buried  there  in  advance.  Paul  knew  nothing 
of  all  that,  but  he  became  possessed  with  an  ardent 
desire  to  see  this  last  habitation  that  destiny  had 
offered  him  in  such  an  extraordinary  manner. 

"Let  me  see  .  .  .  to-day  is  Friday.  I  will  wait 
till  Sunday  night.  On  Sunday  afternoon  I  will  go 
and  see  it." 

When  at  last  he  stood  before  his  vault,  his  first 
sensation  was  one  of  unexpected  pride. 

Large,  and  covered  by  a  handsome  chapel,  it 
seemed  to  him  very  beautiful,  and  all  at  once  he  felt 
himself  important,  almost  rich.  Certainly  compara- 
tively few  people  could  expect  to  have  such  a  sepul- 
cher. 

Curiosity  as  to  who  were  to  be  his  companions  in 
the  eternal  sleep  then  moved  him  to  read  the  names. 
The  last-comer,  a  very  recent  inmate,  he  from  whom 
the  inheritance  had  come,  and  who  had  not  even  sus- 
pected the  existence  of  this  poor  relative,  had  the 
same  name  as  himself,  Paul. 


THE  INHERITANCE  69 

He  read  the  age :  fifty  years. 

'That's  not  old  .  .  ." 

Leaning  against  the  little  iron  gate  of  the  vault, 
his  eyes  eager  with  curiosity,  he  reflected: 

"He  must  have  been  all  alone  in  life  just  as  I  am, 
seeing  that  the  lawyers  had  to  look  so  long  to  find 
me  .  .  ." 

'Alone  in  life,  yes,  but  not  in  death  .  .  .  He  read 
the  other  names. 

"This  is  my  family,"  he  thought,  and  the  idea  of 
having  people  of  his  own  seemed  to  open  a  new 
world  to  him.  Something  tender  rose  in  'him,  giving 
him  a  sense  of  happiness  such  as  he  had  never  before 
felt.  His  imagination  came  into  play,  and  he  tried 
to  see  the  faces,  to  invent  biographies. 

"My  cousin  Estelle;  died  when  she  was  eighteen. 
.  .  .  My  cousin  Charles :  ninety  years  old  .  .  ." 

When  he  went  'home  that  evening  he  looked  with- 
out conviction  at  the  cord.  After  all  why  should 
a  man  go  out  of  his  way  to  kill  himself  when  it  was 
quite  certain  he  would  die  some  day.  The  sight  of 
his  beautiful  burial-place,  full  of  his  own  dead,  had 
made  him  aware  of  the  value  and  the  power  of  life. 

"I — I  stand  up  straight!  I  can  talk;  I  can  walk; 
my  eyes  can  see.  I — I  breathe." 

A  kind  of  triumphant  pity  made  his  heart  beat 
fast.  Living,  he  was  superior  to  all  that  sleeping 
family;  he  was  their  master,  their  lord. 

"Next  Sunday  I  will  go  again  and  take  them  some 
flowers  .  .  ." 

In  future  there  would  foe  somewhere  to  go  on 
Sunday  afternoons.  He  no  longer  felt  isolated, 


70  THE  INHERITANCE 

alone  in  the  world.    He  had  a  strange,  mysterious 
home-circle  of  his  own. 

He  sat  down  at  the  table  to  answer  the  solicitor's 
letter.  The  neat  bundle  of  new  cord  was  before 
him,  and  he  pushed  it  aside,  almost  without  noticing 
it,  as  ihe  stretched  out  his  hand  for  a  sheet  of  writing 
paper. 


LUCIEN  DESCAVES,  born  in  Paris  in  1861,  is  the  son  of  a  well- 
known  engraver,  and  one  of  the  most  definite  personalities  in  the 
French  literary  world.  He  was  a  bank-clerk  of  nineteen  when 
he  wrote  his  first  book,  Le  Calvaire  d'Heloise  Pajadon,  which 
related  in  a  series  of  contes  the  sordid  life-history  of  a  young 
woman  of  the  people,  and  showed  a  profound  understanding  of 
and  sympathy  with  the  working-classes  that  have  only  increased 
with  time.  He  came  into  fame  in  a  bound  in  the  late  'eighties, 
when  he  and  his  publisher  were  prosecuted  for  the  production  of 
two  books,  Les  Miseres  du  Sabre  and  Sous-Offs,  for  which  he  had 
collected  the  material  during  his  military  service.  They  were 
plain-spoken  to  brutality,  but  Descaves  had  written  them  with  a 
sincere  desire  to  point  out  how  the  welfare  of  conscripts  needed 
consideration,  and  to  show  the  necessity  for  reform  in  general 
army-administration,  but  they  were  condemned  as  detrimental  to 
the  State  and  to  public  morals.  The  leading  literary  men,  realiz- 
ing that  they  were  dealing  with  a  young  writer  of  great  talent, 
rose  to  defend  the  liberty  of  the  writer,  and  finally  Descaves  won 
the  day.  His  next  book,  Les  Emmures,  dealt  with  the  condition 
of  the  blind,  and,  like  all  his  subsequent  work,  showed  an  intense 
sympathy  with  all  those  whom  "Life  has  covered  with  wounds 
that  nobody  tends."  The  subjects  of  his  plays  also  always  tend 
to  a  moral  issue  of  the  same  kind.  He  writes  with  precision, 
concentration  and  reserve,  and  if  his  irony  can  bite  cruelly,  an 
underlying  vein  of  tenderness  is  never  absent  He  is  at  present 
the  literary  editor  of  Le  Journal. 


VIII 
THE  DAY  OUT 

By  LUCIEN  DESCAVES 

T3ETRAYED,  and  soon  to  be  a  mother — fatal 
•*-*  result  of  a  public  ball  in  her  native  town — Flor- 
entine had  come,  like  so  many  others,  to  Paris  to 
conceal  the  living  witness  of  her  downfall.  She  was 
received  into  the  Maternity  Hospital.  When  she 
left  it,  she  did  so  with  a  fixed  resolution. 

To  return  to  her  own  town  with  her  infant  was 
not  to  be  thought  of.  Nor  could  she  gain  the  imme- 
diate and  substantial  means  of  livelihood  which  a 
situation  as  wet-nurse  would  have  procured  for  her; 
she  was  not  able  to  feed  her  own  child.  There  was 
nothing  for  it  but  to  leave  the  baby  temporarily  with 
the  Assistance  Publique;  and  when  she  had  signed 
the  crude  form  of  abandon,  she  found  herself  stand- 
ing in  the  street  with  empty  arms,  her  face  scalded 
with  tears. 

She  repeated  to  herself  the  last  replies  of  the 
clerk  to  her  reiterated  question:  "And  it's  quite  sure 
that  when  I  am  in  a  position  to  take  her  back  they 
will  let  me  have  her?" 

"Certainly." 

"And  while  I  am  waiting  they  will  let  me  know 
how  she  gets  on?" 

"Yes,  every  three  months  at  the  Avenue  Victoria. 

73 


74  THE  DAY  OUT 

Show  them  this,  and  you  will  get  the  information  you 
require." 

And  he  had  slipped  into  her  hand  a  little  bit  of 
paper  like  an  omnibus  ticket. 

Never  would  she  forget  her  first  visit  to  that 
Information  Department. 

Three  women  preceded  her  in  the  narrow  corridor 
that  ended  in  a  sort  of  grille.  She  had  not  long  to 
wait.  A  clerk  took  the  numbers,  turned  over  the 
leaves  of  a  register,  and  dismissed  the  women,  one 
after  another,  with  the  single  word:  "Living." 

There  was  only  one  more  before  Florentine,  a 
young  girl,  bareheaded,  her  clothes  tattered.  She 
showed  her  ticket  timidly,  and  her  humble  eyes  fol- 
lowed the  clerk  feverisihly  as  he  turned  over  the 
pages. 

At  last  he  raised  his  head  and  said :  "Dead." 

She  stared,  gaping,  stunned,  hoping — hoping 
what?  That  there  was  some  mistake  ?  For  particu- 
lars? For  trhe  name  of  the  disease  of  which  it  had 
died?  The  place  where  it  was  buried?  .  .  . 

It  was  now  Florentine's  turn,  and  the  clerk,  like 
an  automaton,  said:  "Living." 

Florentine  persisted:  "You  are  sure  she  is  not  ill?" 

Silence. 

"Please  tell  me  where  I  can  write  to  find  out?" 

The  clerk  saw  he  had  a  novice  to  deal  with  and 
to  get  rid  of  her  he  explained :  "We  are  not  allowed 
to  give  details.  Your  child  is  alive :  that's  the  chief 
thing." 

She  returned  every  three  months  on  the  day  speci- 
fied on  the  ticket.  Her  heart  used  to  beat  furiously 
as  she  approached  the  grille,  showed  her  credentials, 


THE  DAY  OUT  75 

and  scrutinized  the  impassive  face  of  the  clerk  to 
try  and  read  there  the  word  that  would  put  an  end 
to  her  sickening  suspense. 

"Living!"  She  no  longer  put  any  further  ques- 
tions, and  went  away  with  a  heart  full  of  unspeak- 
able gratitude.  It  was  the  torture  and  the  joy  of  the 
only  outing  she  ever  asked  of  her  employers.  With- 
out relations,  with  no  friends  to  go  and  see,  and  no 
money  to  spend,  why  should  she  want  to  go  out? 
She  avoided  all  expense  that  was  not  absolutely  nec- 
essary, trying  to  put  by  a  little  hoard  that  would 
eventually  enable  her  to  assume  the  duties  of  mater- 
nity. But  in  two  years  she  was  only  able  to  save 
sixty  francs.  She  was  not  strong,  and  twice  she  had 
to  go  to  hospital.  She  came  out  looking  ill  and  in- 
capable, and  the  registry  offices  never  sent  her  to  any 
but  poor  places  where,  more  often  than  not,  she  was 
treated  as  a  slave. 

But  at  last  these  hardships  came  to  an  end.  She 
found  a  situation  where  there  were  breathing-spaces, 
moments  of  rest,  and  she  could  recruit  her  strength. 
A  simple  old  couple,  quiet  and  considerate ;  very  little 
hard  work;  fair  wages.  A  real  haven  of  rest.  And 
Florentine  was  at  last  able  to  put  aside  the  money 
that  meant  getting  possession  of  her  daughter. 

Then  came  the  date  for  the  visit,  for  going  "to 
see  her"  as  she  called  it.  Madame  willingly  granted 
the  request  for  the  day  out,  the  more  readily  as 
Florentine  promised  to  be  back  in  time  to  prepare 
dinner.  She  kept  her  word;  at  five  o'clock  she  was 
bending  over  the  pans  on  the  kitchen  range.  But  at 
table  Madame  was  puzzled  and  inquisitive: 

"Have  you  noticed  how  upset  Florentine  seems? 


76  THE  DAY  OUT 

She'd  got  her  apron  up  to  her  face  when  I  went 
into  the  kitchen  just  now.  Something  must  have  gone 
wrong  with  her  when  she  was  out  .  .  ." 

"Perhaps  her  sapper  has  turned  to  another  and 
a  fairer,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  whose  pleasantries 
dated  from  the  second  Empire. 

"Or  perhaps  her  fireman  hasn't  come  up  to 
scratch,"  corrected  Madame,  who  was  more  up-to- 
date. 

They  watched  the  girl  stealthily,  growing  excited 
when  they  saw  that  the  expression  of  her  face  had 
quite  changed.  The  cooking  was  very  bad. 

"The  soup  was  much  too  salt — she  must  have  been 
crying  into  it!"  said  Monsieur  wittily. 

Madame  agreed,  adding  mischievously: 

"It's  been  the  same  with  all  the  courses.  Every- 
thing has  tasted  of  tears  to-night." 


HENRI  DUVERNOIS 


HENRI  DUVERNOIS,  born  in  Paris  in  1873  and  educated  at  the 
College  Rallin,  began  life  as  a  journalist,  and  has  contributed  to 
most  of  the  leading  French  newspapers  and  periodicals.  His 
short  stories  have  been  collected  and  published  in  six  volumes; 
and  he  has  also  written  nine  or  ten  novels.  "The  Fez"  is  taken 
from  a  volume  called  Le  Chien  qui  Parle. 


IX 

THE  FEZ 
By  HENRI  DUVERNOIS 

NISSIM  remembered  that  he  had  once  been  a 
Turk  chiefly  because,  long  ago,  it  was  with  a 
fez  on  'his  head  that  he  used  to  walk  the  pavement 
outside  the  cafes  selling  snow-white  rahat-loukoum 
and  chunks  of  nougat  in  which  the  almonds  looked 
like  yellow  teeth  set  awry  in  discolored  gums. 
Happy,  care-free  days  of  juvenile  commerce !  Armed 
with  a  platter  of  highly-burnished  copper  and  a 
damascened  spoon,  he  had  wandered  through  the 
world,  beguiling  the  frau,  the  miss,  the  senora, 
teaching  them  the  insipid  delights  of  his  sugary 
wares — and  of  other  things,  as  opportunity  pre- 
sented itself.  Serious,  too,  in  spite  of  his  perpetual 
smile  and  the  engaging  twinkle  in  his  eyes.  And  with 
all  the  more  respect  for  the  authorities  because  he 
had  no  civil  status ;  was  not  even  sure  where  he  came 
from.  Hunger  had  driven  him  away  when  he  was 
quite  a  child  from  the  hovel  where  too  many  lousy 
little  brothers  and  sisters  with  ringworm  had  scram- 
bled about  in  the  dust.  But  now  he  had  realized  his 
ambition,  and  was  in  Paris;  his  hair  was  turning 
gray,  as  was  also  his  big  mustache;  he  spoke  a 
weird  language  composed  of  the  slang  of  all  the 
countries  through  which  he  had  wandered,  but  it 

79 


8o  THE  FEZ 

was  softened  by  a  natal  accent  that  gave  a  softened 
song-like  effect  to  all  he  said. 

He  explored  the  terraces  of  the  Parisian  cafes 
with  a  queer  old  top-hat  on  his  head;  his  frock-coat 
and  trousers  were  brown,  and  he  wore  a  big  white 
necktie,  patent  boots,  and  an  air  of  jovial  dignity 
like  that  of  the  notary  of  vaudeville.  He  carried  in 
his  hand  a  sample-box,  one  of  those  used  by  jewel- 
ers' travelers,  in  which  were  rings  with  three  pearls 
set  trefoil-fashion,  and  a  diamond  in  the  middle  to 
represent  a  drop  of  dew,  souvenir  brooches,  and  out- 
of-date  medallions.  And  every  pocket  concealed  a 
watch  with  a  double  case,  which  he  would  open  and 
turn  about  before  the  dazzled  client. 

"Better  than  gold,  monsie." 

And  if  "monsie"  betrayed  the  least  interest,  he 
would  deliberately  take  a  chair,  sit  down,  and  open 
his  box  with  a  "Phuuu !"  that  suggested  that  he  had 
wonders  to  reveal,  nor  would  he  spare  the  hoped- 
for  client  the  inspection  of  one  single  compartment. 
He  exhibited  his  trinkets  with  grace;  his  hand 
stretched  like  a  pigeon's  wing  as  he  placed  a  brooch 
on  madame's  neck,  or  slipped  a  ring  on  her  finger, 
nor  did  he  forget  to  take  from  his  pocket,  by  way  of 
interlude,  the  plain  watch  suitable  for  an  ordinary 
person,  or  the  splendid  chronometer  fit  for  a  gallant, 
with  an  enamel  picture  on  the  back  showing  a  lady 
of  Montmartre  enjoying  a  bottle  of  champagne. 

"That,  that  all  what  is  very  best,  monsie." 

At  midnight  he  would  return  to  his  room  on  the 
sixth  floor  in  the  rue  du  Helder,  for  he  had  at  last 
succeeded  in  making  a  little  fatherland  for  himself 
near  the  boulevards  where  he  gained  his  living.  In 


THE  FEZ  81 

the  summer,  during  the  dead  season,  he  remained 
there,  showing  his  wares,  just  for  the  pleasure  of 
doing  it,  to  the  municipal  water-cart  man,  to  the 
flower-sellers,  to  the  police. 

He  knew  nobody  except  Bichon,  Mademoiselle 
Bichon  of  the  cafe-concerts,  who  came  sometimes  to 
see  him  when  she  was  in  need  of  money.  A  terrible 
Bichon,  somewhere  about  forty,  more  plastered  with 
powder  than  his  rahat-loukoum,  but  infinitely  less 
sweet.  He  adored  her,  and  watched  her  with  fear, 
for  she  did  not  scruple  to  help  herself  from  his 
sample-case,  taking  from  it  a  ring,  a  brooch,  a  chain, 
just  as  she  would  pick  grapes  from  a  bunch  on  a 
plate.  For  eighteen  years  she  had  crushed  him  with 
her  reproaches,  threats,  cruelties,  lies  and  betrayals. 
He  had  given  her  a  key  of  his  room,  and  she  came 
whenever  she  liked.  The  concierge  would  warn 
Nissim : 

"Go  up  quickly.    Your  Camel  is  waiting  for  you." 

And  Nissim  was  so  conciliating,  so  amiable,  so 
anxious  to  please  every  one — the  habit  of  his  trade — 
he  would  sometimes  ask  his  door-keeper: 

"Monsieur  Parentier,  has  not  Madame  my  Camel 
ask  for  me?" 

But  as  soon  as  he  had  opened  his  door,  he  would 
stoop  down  to  murmur  to  Bichon,  huddled  up  in  an 
uneasy  doze : 

"It  is  me,  my  dove,  do  not  be  disturbed." 

Over  and  over  again  she  had  bidden  him  a  last 
good-by  with  a  fierce  joy,  setting  out  for  tours  that 
were  supposed  to  bring  her  money  and  fame,  but 
from  which  she  returned  still  thinner  and  more  evil- 
tempered,  her  hair  limp,  her  mouth  bitter  because 


82  THE  FEZ 

she  had  sung  to  a  chorus  of  insults.  He  would  bow 
his  head,  overjoyed  to  see  her  again,  the  slave  of 
his  love — >he  who  came  of  a  race  where  the  women 
are  slaves,  bewitched  by  this  vixen  whose  feet  he 
kissed  with  devotion,  letting  her  rob  him  without 
protest,  torture  him  without  a  word  of  complaint. 
All  that  was  beautiful  seemed  to  resemble  her,  from 
the  goddesses  on  his  brooches  to  the  dancers  in 
enamel  drinking  champagne  on  the  back  of  his  best 
watches. 

One  night  on  returning  home  he  found  her  in  bed, 
and  trembled  with  joy.  He  had  believed  her  lost, 
far  away  in  some  remote  part  of  Europe,  and  here 
she  was  back  from  a  three-weeks'  absence  in  Orleans. 

She  received  his  expression  of  joy  with  a  question: 

"What  the  devil  are  you  doing  here?" 

He  started,  taken  aback  by  the  question.  She 
explained: 

"I'm  asking  what  the  devil  you  are  doing  here 
while  your  brothers  are  all  out  there  fighting?" 

He  tried  to  take  it  as  a  joke. 

"Ah!  the  war?  I  too  old,  my  dove,  and  all  that 
is  politics:  me,  I  sell  my  little  jewelry;  I  not  think 
of  other  things  .  .  ." 

"Are  you  a  Turk?    Yes  or  no  ?" 

"I  not  a  Turk.    I  seller  of  jewelry." 

"Then  you  don't  read  the  papers?" 

He  shook  his  head.  The  papers  cost  money,  and 
besides,  he  could  scarcely  read  at  all.  In  any  case, 
this  sort  of  conversation  had  no  interest  for  him; 
he  wanted  to  find  Bichon  in  the  kindly  mood  which 
sometimes  preluded  a  request  for  a  hat  or  a  pair  of 
boots.  But  she  insisted : 


THE  FEZ  83 

"But  where  do  you  come  from?" 

He  reflected.  It  was  so  long  since  he  had  left 
his  birth-place.  Finally  he  pronounced  a  name,  bar- 
barous and  soft  of  sound.  In  that  far-off  land  there 
was  sunshine  and  blue  sky,  but  so  much  poverty,  so 
much  misery.  He  imagined  himself  back  there,  run- 
ning about  in  a  dirty  shirt  and  scrambling  among 
the  dogs  for  food. 

"They  never  hurt  me  ...  I  liked  them  .  .  . 
Once  I  cried.  The  mother-dogs  had  put  their  pup- 
pies safe  in  a  hole  in  a  big  dust-heap  .  .  .  and  the 
big  rain  came,  and  all  the  little  dogs  were  drowned. 
We  not  have  toys  there;  we  play  with  what  we  found. 
So  we  play  with  the  little  dead  dogs,  but  we  cried, 
and  cried  .  .  ." 

He  shook  himself  and  squared  his  shoulders. 
What  connection  could  there  possibly  be  between 
that  starved  urchin  and  this  gentleman  peddler  with 
his  case  of  jewelry,  his  frock-coat,  his  high  hat, 
the  real  tradesman  that  he  had  become,  living  in 
rue  du  Helder,  surrounded  by  his  own  furniture, 
and  with  a  magnificent  sweetheart  with  yellow  hair? 

"Kiss  Nissim  and  not  talk  politics,"  he  urged. 
"Not  like  to  talk  of  poor  beggars  .  .  ." 

"You'd  shake  with  fright  if  they  made  you  go  and 
fight!  How  old  are  you?" 

He  made  a  vague  gesture.  He  didn't  know.  He 
didn't  know  anything  about  himself.  He  was  Nissim 
and  that  was  all.  He  used  to  sell  sweet-meats  out  in 
the  big  world;  now  he  was  tired,  hungering  for  cos- 
setings  and  rest;  he  thought  of  nothing  but  his  trade 
and  Bichon.  She  must  not  ask  too  much  of  him.  He 
tapped  his  forehead  with  his  fist. 


84  THE  FEZ 

"An  old  animal,  my  dove,  Nissim  an  old,  old  ani- 
mal who  loves  you  .  .  ." 

But  to-night  his  cajoleries  were  without  effect;  his 
smile  had  lost  its  brilliance,  and  his  eyes,  the  eyes 
dimmed  by  the  electric  glare  of  cafes,  wearied  by 
having  implored  attention  from  too  many  people, 
begged  instead  of  fascinating. 

"You  don't  even  know  that  your  country  is  at 
war.  Wait  a  minute !" 

She  got  up.  Her  face  wore  its  expression  of  bad 
days,  and  her  movements  had  the  quickness  that  only 
came  when  she  was  on  the  point  of  playing  one  of 
her  worst  tricks. 

"I've  brought  you  the  papers;  I'm  going  to  read 
them  to  you." 

Resigning  himself  to  this  incomprehensible  caprice, 
he  sat  down,  his  hat  still  on  his  head,  his  sample-case 
on  his  knees,  his  elbows  pressed  close  to  his  sides  so 
that  he  could  protect  the  watches  if  she  pushed  vio- 
lently against  him.  She  picked  up  some  newspapers 
she  had  brought,  and  spread  them  out  on  the  table. 

"They're  getting  it  hot;  your  Turks!  Wait  a 
moment  and  you'll  see." 

He  looked  at  her  uneasily — surely  it  would  have 
been  better  to  lie  down  and  fall  happily  asleep, 
thinking  of  nothing  but  each  other !  But  she  kept  to 
her  idea,  and  began  to  read.  An  immense  respect 
for  her  took  possession  of  him  as  he  listened,  the 
respect  of  the  ignorant  for  those  who  can  read. 
How  clever  she  was,  this  Bichon !  And  what  a  pretty 
voice  she  had  .  .  . 

Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  he  understood.  It  was  the 
account  of  a  terrible  defeat:  rifles  thrown  away  in 


THE  FEZ  85 

heaps,  death,  terror,  the  cholera,  hunger — above  all, 
hunger,  the  Turkish  hunger  that  he  had  known.  And 
at  the  recollection  his  stomach  turned. 

"They're  getting  it  hot!  They're  getting  it  hot!" 
repeated  Bichon  with  frenzied  joy. 

Corpses  .  .  .  prisoners  ...  no  alleviation  for 
the  agony  of  the  wounded;  Death  without  Glory. 
The  names  of  the  towns  taken  one  by  one  touched 
some  vague  note  of  remembrance  in  the  awakening 
brain  of  Nissim.  He  had  heard  those  names  before, 
long  ago;  he  repeated  them  to  himself  under  his 
breath:  "Bonnar  Hissar  .  .  .  Karagatch  .  .  .  Viza 

M 

When  she  had  finished,  Bichon  raised  her  head. 
Nissim  still  had  his  case  on  his  knees,  but  he  was 
trembling  convulsively.  Never  had  Bichon  seen  a 
man  tremble  like  that.  It  almost  alarmed  her. 

"Are  you  ill?" 

He  trembled  still  more  violently.  She  was  begin- 
ning to  laugh  scornfully: 

"Oh!     Mountebanks  like  you  .  .  ." 

But  Nissim  was  standing,  drawn  up  to  his  full 
height  before  her,  and  suddenly  fear  seized  her.  Up 
in  his  little  room  on  the  sixth  floor  of  the  rue  du 
Helder,  Nissim  had  in  a  flash  become  filled  with  the 
poignant  distress,  the  impotent  rage,  of  the  van- 
quished who  had  fallen  in  that  distant  land.  But  he 
was  so  young  when  he  left  his  country.  Hadn't  he 
said  so  himself  just  now?  He  didn't  remember  any- 
thing at  all  about  it;  he  had  said  it  was  "all  politics." 
But  she  saw  she  had  made  a  mistake.  She  ought  not 
to  have  spoken  like  that;  it  would  have  been  better 
to  have  gone  to  bed  at  once,  not  to  have  brought  up 


86  THE  FEZ 

such  a  distressing  subject.  And  she  asked  him  to 
forgive  her  for  having  laughed.  But  he  pushed  her 
hat  and  dress  towards  her. 

"Quick!    Quick!     Get  out." 

Panic-stricken,  she  dressed  in  haste.  In  five  min- 
utes the  old  idiot  had  relapsed  into  a  Turk!  He  was 
throwing  her  out  as  he  would  have  thrown  her  out 
of  a  harem.  She  fled,  banging  the  door  behind  her 
with  an  oath. 

Nissim  was  alone.  He  rummaged  in  a  trunk, 
and  got  out  his  fez,  the  fez  he  wore  when  he  sold 
rahat-loukoum  and  nougat.  It  was  all  moth-eaten, 
but  he  threw  his  high  hat  aside,  and  put  it  on  his 
head.  Then,  some  irresistible  force  made  him  bow 
his  head;  words,  soft  and  barbarous,  rose  to  his  lips, 
words  he  had  used  as  a  little  child,  full  of  sunshine, 
of  odors,  and  of  suffering,  words  of  whose  meaning 
he  knew  nothing,  except  that  they  formed  a  prayer. 

And  he  fell  on  his  knees  sobbing — his  face  turned 
towards  Mecca. 


CLAUDE  FARRERE 


CLAUDE  FARRERE  was  born  at  Lyon  in  1876;  his  father  was  a 
Colonel  in  the  French  Army,  his  mother  an  Englishwoman.  Edu- 
cated at  I'Ecole  Navale  de  France,  he  was  in  the  Navy  for  twenty- 
five  years  with  the  exception  of  two,  1916-1918,  when  he  was 
granted  permission  to  serve  at  the  front  in  the  French  tanks.  He 
began  to  write  for  the  papers  in  1897,  and  his  first  short  story 
appeared  in  Le  Journal  in  1901.  His  first  book,  Fumee  d'Opium, 
was  published  in  1904,  and  the  following  year  he  was  awarded 
the  Prix  Goncourt  for  Les  Civilises.  The  dozen  novels  that  have 
followed  are  of  all  kinds,  but  his  name  is  chiefly  associated  with 
the  novel  of  adventure. 


X 
THE  TURRET 

By  CLAUDE  FARRERE 

Tj^ARGUE,  naval  lieutenant,  gunnery  specialist, 
•*•  officer  of  the  fore-turret  A,  takes  a  firm  grip 
with  both  hands  on  the  rungs  of  the  rope-ladder  and 
climbs  to  the  steel  ladder.  When  he  reaches  the 
trap-door,  he  secures  himself  with  one  hand  and 
pushes  with  the  other;  the  trap-door  opens  with  a 
great  clanging  of  ironwork.  A  voice  from  above 
calls  out: 

"Attention !" 

Fargue  mounts  the  last  three  rungs,  raises  himself 
on  his  wrists,  and  finally  sets  foot  on  the  iron  floor- 
ing. The  door  falls  back,  closing  the  trap.  The 
crews  are  drawn  up  in  perfect  order  on  each  side 
of  the  guns:  heels  together,  right  hands  at  the 
salute,  left  hands  by  their  sides. 

"Stand  easy!"  Fargue  orders. 

Then  making  his  way  between  the  guns,  he 
perches  himself  on  the  officer's  seat  to  see  what  is 
happening  outside.  Nothing  out  of  the  ordinary  is 
to  be  seen  through  the  holes  in  the  sighting-board. 
As  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  the  gray  seas  are  break- 
ing in  long  parallel  lines  of  foam,  and  the  battle- 
ships are  moving  "in  line  ahead"  through  these 
breaking  seas,  each  one  following  in  the  wake  of 

89 


go  THE  TURRET 

the  ship  ahead.  Fargue  makes  a  half-turn  and  steps 
down  again  to  the  deck  to  make  an  inspection  be- 
fore the  practice  begins. 

His  warrant-officer  smiles  cordially  in  greeting. 

"Morning,  Gourves.  .  .  .  Anything  to  report  to- 
day?" 

"Nothing  at  all,  sir." 

"Have  you  adjusted  the  training-gear?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"There  is  not  too  much  slack  in  the  driving- 
chains?" 

"We  took  up  a  link  this  morning.  It  is  now 
exactly  the  length  you  showed  us  last  time." 

"Good." 

Fargue  moves  over  to  the  armor-plated  side  and 
leans  against  it  ... 

To-day  there  is  every  prospect  of  protracted 
manceuvers:  they  will  pretend  to  engage  a  hostile 
fleet,  represented  by  their  own  light  cruisers.  Doubt- 
less, with  a  scheme  affording  such  infinite  opportuni- 
ties for  the  most  unforeseen  fantasies  on  the  part  of 
the  Admirals,  they  will  have  a  taste  of  everything, 
and  find  out  what  it  means  "to  dig  holes  in  the 
waves."  But  what  is  the  use  of  tiring  oneself  before- 
hand? So  Fargue,  leaning  up  against  the  wall,  runs 
his  eye  over  his  turret. 

...  A  two-gun  turret  with  twelve-inch  armor- 
plating — what  a  beautiful  thing !  Just  try  to  imagine 
an  oval  room  about  twenty-three  feet  long  and  nine- 
teen feet  broad,  with  a  very  low  ceiling,  and  all  made 
of  polished  steel.  Inside  it  are  two  prodigious  guns, 
lying  side  by  side,  two  guns  whose  long  barrels  jut 
out  forty  feet  beyond  the  turret  through  the  double 


THE  TURRET  91 

embrasure,  and  whose  breeches  are  so  large  as  to  fill 
the  turret  to  such  an  extent  that  one  wonders,  at  first 
sight,  where  the  thirteen  men,  who  are  required  for 
working  them,  can  possibly  find  room.  Yet  they 
manage  to  do  so,  and  their  presence  does  not  seem 
to  add  materially  to  the  indescribable  congestion  of 
the  place.  As  for  the  guns,  they  hardly  count! 
There  are  the  recoil  cylinders,  the  slides,  the  cradles; 
the  ammunition  hoists,  the  ammunition  cages,  the 
sighting-gear,  the  elevating  cylinders,  the  telescopes, 
the  turn-table,  the  gun  carriages  and  the  projectile 
rails;  the  rammers,  the  sponges,  the  wash-out  gear, 
the  hydraulic-pipe  system,  the  air-service  and  the 
electric  system  .  .  .  there  is  an  inextricably  tangled 
mass  of  iron,  steel,  copper  and  brass;  there  are  trains 
of  cog-wheels  which  the  thirteen  men,  cogs  of  another 
sort,  but  more  perfected  and  no  less  disciplined,  work 
with  the  greatest  method  and  meticulous  care — it  is 
fine !  The  roof  does  not  lie  directly  on  the  walls :  a 
row  of  steel  supports,  like  a  colonnade,  separates 
them,  forming  a  series  of  horizontal  loopholes,  an 
inch  or  so  high,  between  the  roof  and  the  walls,  by 
which  the  sea-breeze  can  penetrate,  tempered  by  the 
sun-warmed  daylight;  and  this  daylight  is  supple- 
mented by  the  cold  light  of  the  electric  lamps.  The 
result  is  that  you  can  see  well  enough.  It  is  fine  f 
Through  this  sort  of  cornice  made  of  daylight,  the 
thirteen  men  can  also,  from  time  to  time,  as  the  ship 
rolls,  get  a  glimpse  outside  and  find  out  what  is 
going  on. 

There  are  thirteen  of  them:  the  second-in-com- 
mand, keeping  an  eye  on  the  whole  apparatus,  is  the 
brain :  the  two  petty  officers,  each  in  charge  of  a  gun, 


92  THE  TURRET 

the  motor  nerves :  the  two  certificated  gunlayers,  the 
eyes:  the  two  extra  gunlayers,  spare  eyes:  the  two 
loaders  and  the  two  ammunition  providers,  the  mus- 
cles: one  armorer,  the  healing  faculty:  and  lastly, 
the  officer,  the  soul.  Thirteen  men  and  yet  they  are 
but  one :  one  entity  composed  of  their  thirteen  beings 
— the  turret,  the  forward  turret,  the  twin  turret 
with  twelve-inch  armor-plating,  the  most  awesome 
weapon  of  offense  on  the  battleship,  her  best  and 
surest  means  of  issuing  victorious  from  battles  to 
come. 


It  has  begun.  Outside,  the  roll  of  the  drums, 
followed  by  two  single  strokes,  means:  "Load!" 
Fargue  stands  up  and  gives  the  word:  "Close  up!" 
and  immediately  perches  himself  on  the  officer's  seat. 
Far  away  over  the  misty  sea,  striped  zebra-wise  with 
lines  of  foam  on  green  water,  he  can  see  through  the 
slits  of  his  sighting-hood  some  confused  silhouettes 
rising  over  the  horizon:  the  light  squadron,  the 
cruisers  that  represent  the  hostile  fleet.  Fargue  looks 
round  to  make  sure  that  each  of  the  personnel  is 
standing  immovable  in  his  appointed  place,  and  gives 
out,  one  after  the  other,  the  necessary  orders. 
"Raise  the  cages!"  "Load!"  "Close  the  breeches!" 
After  which,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  receivers,  he  him- 
self waits  until  the  bridge  gives  him,  in  turn,  his 
orders,  the  supreme  will  of  the  Admiral,  transmitted 
through  the  Captain,  who  is  at  his  post  up  there  in 
the  conning-tower. 

Meanwhile  the  breech  blocks  clang,  the  loading 
trays  fall  back,  the  ammunition  hoists  rumble  as  the 


THE  TURRET  93 

ratchets  click.  Of  course  they  do  not  really  put 
charges  in  the  guns;  they  only  pretend  to  do  so;  but 
all  the  motions  are  gone  through  as  if  they  were  real 
shells  and  real  charges  which  they  were  ramming  at 
top  speed  into  the  open,  well-oiled  barrels.  Gourves, 
the  warrant-officer,  takes  out  his  watch  to  time  the 
operation.  .  .  .  No.  I  gun  "loads"  well:  its  petty- 
officer,  Le  Kellec,  is  a  good  man,  with  plenty  of  "go" 
in  him,  and  reliable  .  .  .  Twenty-three  seconds ! 
Splendid!  Why!  that's  equal  to  record  time!  not  a 
fifth  of  a  second  over!  .  .  .  No.  2  i,s  behindhand: 
Fontan  is  not  so  good  a  man  as  Le  Kellec.  .  .  . 
Gourves  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  scorn:  as  for 
Fontan,  a  Dago  from  Dagoland,  can  you  expect  him 
to  be  as  good  as  a  Breton?  A  Breton  from  Mor- 
laix?  A  Le  Kellec  from  Gourves'  own  part  of  the 
country?  Gourves  would  be  angry  enough  to  kill 
Fontan  if  he  should  ever  "get  into  the  same  street" 
with  Le  Kellec.  All  the  same,  too  long  is  too  long: 
thirty-four  seconds — that  necessitates  a  bit  of  slang- 
ing. 

"Now,  then,  wake  up  there,  Fontan !  Has  your 
crew  gone  to  sleep,  and  you  with  them?" 

Fontan  does  not  move  an  eyelash;  but  near  him 
an  irritated  click  of  the  tongue  gives  answer  to  the 
reproof.  No  doubt  about  where  that  comes  from! 
It  is  Breneol,  the  loader,  with  his  "back-chat."  He 
is  given  to  "backchat,"  is  Breneol !  Not  a  bad  gun- 
ner except  for  that.  The  only  thing  to  do  is  to  close 
one's  ears.  If  one  chooses  to  hear — well,  one  would 
be  obliged  to  punish,  and  what  good  would  that  do? 
Gourves  does  not  hear;  Fargue  does  not  hear  either. 

For  they  are  men,  these  thirteen  cog-wheels  of 


94  THE  TURRET 

the  turret;  men  like  you  and  me;  and  it  is  only  here, 
in  the  turret,  that  they  are  cog-wheels.  Anywhere 
else  the  difference  in  their  birth,  their  nationality, 
their  instincts,  education,  habits,  outlook,  and  their 
brains  render  them  as  different  as  you,  doubtless, 
are  from  me.  Take  Le  Kellec  and  Fontan — when 
off  duty  do  you  imagine  that  they  ever  exchange  one 
single  word?  And  Breneol,  the  loader,  taciturn  and 
stubborn;  and  Le  Due,  the  gunlayer  of  No.  2  gun, 
a  well-behaved  lad;  and  Tiphaigne,  the  reserve  gun- 
iayer,  an  anarchist,  who  inserts  the  last  copy  of  the 
Libertaire  into  his  text-book  on  naval  gunnery,  so 
that  he  can  read  either  class  of  literature  in  the  hours 
devoted  to  the  study  of  theory;  and  Penven  who 
hands  out  the  ammunition,  always  drunk  from  the 
moment  he  sets  foot  on  shore,  where  he  lives  in  the 
lowest  localities;  and  Braziere,  the  armorer,  a 
Bachelor  of  Science,  who  prefers  soiling  his  white 
hands  with  oil  and  rust  to  being  a  nonentity  in  some 
college;  and  Loheac  d'Elfe,  the  gunlayer  of  No.  i, 
who  is  of  noble  birth,  and  was  once  rich,  but  has 
chosen  to  enlist,  no  one  knows  why  ...  do  you 
imagine  that  they  consort  together  and  become  inti- 
mate, men  like  this  who  probably  have  not  three 
ideas  in  common?  No!  Emphatically  NO  1  Each 
one  "sets  his  own  course,"  and  silently  follows  his 
own  particular  ideas  in  his  own  way,  keeping  away 
from  those  who  would  disturb  his  peace.  It  is  only 
here,  behind  the  armor-plate,  under  this  low  roof, 
on  this  resonant  floor,  that  all-powerful  discipline 
knits  these  different  natures  together,  coordinates 
them,  molds  them,  kneads  them  until  they  form 
one  living  entity — -the  Turret  .  .  . 


THE  TURRET  95 

Fargue  falls  into  a  reflective  mood,  and  puts  this 
question  to  himself:  What  is  it  really  worth,  this 
indispensable  discipline?  To  what  degree  does  it 
influence  them?  How  strongly  does  it  bind  them  to- 
gether, remodel  them  in  its  melting  pot?  To  what 
point  can  one  rely  on  this  human  metal?  It  can 
never  be  decided  until  war  comes  and  takes  them 
close  to  Death,  facing  Death,  the  supreme  touch- 
stone . 


"Close  up!" 

A  bell  sounds.  The  needles  on  the  receiver-board 
change  their  position.  Fargue  issues  his  orders : 

"Bearing  eighty  degrees !  Train  right,  third 
speed!  .  .  .  Range,  eight  thousand  six  hundred! 
Deflection,  thirty-two  thousandths,  left  .  .  .  On  the 
first  cruiser  from  the  left !  Ready!  .  .  ." 

The  order  is  already  carried  out.  The  turret  piv- 
ots round,  smoothly  and  quickly.  Through  the  sight- 
ing slits,  Fargue  watches  the  horizon  as  it  passes 
under  his  view.  There  are  the  cruisers  slipping  along 
in  Indian  file  from  starboard  to  port,  like  fantastic 
Chinese  silhouettes.  The  rest  of  the  men,  standing 
on  tiptoe,  look  also,  and  take  in  the  situation. 

The  battleships  are  steaming  in  "line  ahead"  par- 
allel to  the  "line  ahead"  of  the  cruisers.  The  battle- 
ships, in  splendid  order,  at  four  hundred  metres 
interval,  are  each  steering  just  to  the  right  of  the 
stern  of  the  preceding  vessel.  This  presents  a  double 
view  of  long  gliding  hulls  and  clean-cut  masts  under 
the  ensigns  fluttering  in  the  breeze  .  .  . 

"Independent  firing!  .  .  .  Commence!  .  .  ." 


96  THE  TURRET 

Several  reports  have  rung  out;  they  are  blank 
rounds  fired  by  the  Admiral  as  a  sort  of  warning 
signal.  The  cruisers  over  there  are  now  aware  that 
fire  has  been  opened  on  them. 

"Eight   thousand   metres!  .  .  .  Seven    thousand 

six  hundred!  .  .  .  Seven  thousand  four  hundred! 
ii 

The  crews  briskly  work  the  handles  of  the  laying 
and  training  gear.  Ha  !  Is  the  enemy  coming  nearer 
to  us?  Probably  the  "boss"  is  slanting  on  to  the 
light  squadron,  on  the  sly,  without  seeming  to  do  so. 
.  .  .  Well,  it's  their  look-out  if  they  don't  take  the 
hint.  They  are  not  powerful  enough  to  join  issue 
at  short  range.  Le  Kellec,  with  a  rapid  glance 
through  the  loopholes,  estimates  the  variation  of  the 
range.  Braziere,  his  hands  on  his  hips,  is  busy  calcu- 
lating the  cosine  of  the  angle  of  approach.  Teph- 
aigne  chuckles  to  himself,  and  thinks  of  universal  dis- 
armament. Penven  lets  his  thoughts  wander  to 
women.  Loheac  d'Elfe,  as  usual  unaffected  by  any- 
thing, verifies  his  line  of  aim  .  .  . 

The  bell  tinkles  again.    Fargue  gives  fresh  orders. 

"Same  target!  .  .  .  Bearing,  zero  degrees!  .  .  . 
Train  left,  third  speed  1  .  .  .  Range,  seven  thousand 
eight  hundred!  .  .  .  eight  thousand  two  hundred! 
.  .  .  eight  thousand  four  hundred!  .  .  .  Deflection, 
six  left!  .  .  .  Continue  the  firing!  .  .  ." 

So  they  are  not  so  stupid  as  they  seemed  to  be, 
those  cruisers !  They  have  made  their  escape  by  a 
simple  operation,  by  hauling  off  all  at  the  same  time 
to  their  right  on  the  tack  away  from  the  battleships. 
And  the  battleships  have  only  one  course  open  if 
they  want  the  engagement  to  continue — they,  too, 


THE  TURRET  97 

must  bear  off  to  their  right  at  the  same  instant  and 
press  on  the  chase.  But  it  must  be  done  at  once  or 
it  will  be  too  late  .  .  . 

Fargue,  still  perched  on  his  seat,  with  his  head  in 
the  armored  sighting-hood,  looks  through  the 
slits.  Come  now!  That's  not  half  bad!  .  .  .  the 
manoeuver  has  been  perfectly  executed.  Hardly  had 
the  signal  flag  been  hoisted  close  up  at  the  mainmast 
of  the  flag-ship  than  it  was  hauled  down  again, 
obeyed.  Each  ship  is  in  its  correct  position.  The 
"line  ahead"  has  now  become  "line  abreast,"  that  is 
to  say,  the  battleships  are  now  forging  ahead,  side 
by  side,  with  their  bows  pointing  at  the  enemy,  each 
one  striving  neither  to  pass  or  be  passed  by  the  next 
ship.  ...  By  no  means  an  easy  task  to  accomplish ! 
But  look !  There  is  irregularity !  The  Auersted,  the 
next  ship  on  the  port  side,  has  lost  nearly  a  length, 
and  on  the  starboard  side  the  Eckmull  has  gained  a 
length  and  a  half.  Fargue  demonstrates  his  opinion 
of  them  by  spitting  through  the  embrasure.  Heav- 
ens! Is  it  only  there,  on  board  the  Fontenoy,  that 
sufficient  care  is  taken  to  keep  the  signaled  speed  for 
five  minutes  together?  Are  they  all  asleep  in  those 
engine-rooms  ?  Lord !  What  gems  of  engineers  they 
have !  It's  a  scandal.  And  Fargue  spits  again  with 
emphasis.  Behind  him,  Gourves,  Le  Kellec,  Fontan 
and  several  others  are  smiling  in  derision,  taking 
their  cue  from  their  officer  ...  A  fine  "line  abreast," 
very  fine ! 

But  they  are  not  there  to  amuse  themselves.  The 
working  of  the  guns  has  slackened  off,  and  Fargue 
turns  round  saying  sharply: 

"Well,  Gourves,  do  you  mean  to  get  loaded  by 


98  THE  TURRET 

to-morrow,  or  do  you  think  to-day  will  do  as  well  ?" 
This  sudden  call  to  order  runs  through  the  crews, 
from  Gourves  to  Fontan,  from  Fontan  to  Breneol, 
from  Breneol  to  Martin.  And  immediately  the  whole 
turret  springs  to  its  task.  But  again  some  one  has 
groused  under  his  breath.  And  again  Fargue,  anx- 
ious, wonders — how  far  is  their  discipline  sound? 
How  far  can  it  be  relied  upon  ? 

"Stand  by  ...  Same  target.  Bearing,  ninety 
degrees !  .  .  .  Train  right,  third  speed !  .  .  .  GOOD 
GOD!" 

The  order  dies  away  in  the  mouth  of  the  officer 

This  is  what  has  happened:  the  battleships  have 
resumed  their  formation  "line  ahead"  in  order  to 
double  round  and  envelop  the  van  of  the  opposing 
fleet,  and  to  baffle  this  attempt,  the  cruisers  have 
turned,  and  are  steaming  on  a  parallel  course. 

This  accounts  for  the  alteration  in  the  aim,  each 
ship  having  swung  ninety  degrees  to  the  left.  Only 
— something  has  gone  wrong;  either  the  rudder  of 
the  steering-gear  or  the  tiller-chains,  nobody  knows 
for  certain,  there  has  been  no  time  to  find  out  yet, 
and  the  Fontenoy,  instead  of  swinging  round  in  time 
with  the  other  ships,  does  not  leave  her  course,  and 
goes  ahead  in  a  straight  line — in  a  straight  line! — 
while  the  Eckmull  on  the  starboard  side  swings, 
swings  round  perpendicularly  on  to  the  Fontenoy. 
Collision !  Unavoidable  collision !  .  .  .  Collision 
that  means  the  burying  of  the  Eckmull's  ram  in  the 
Fontenoy' 's  side,  and  instantly  the  Fontenoy  will  turn 
turtle  and  founder,  just  as  the  Victoria  did  in  1893 
when  rammed  by  the  Camperdown.  Death!  In- 


THE  TURRET  99 

stant  death  rushing  upon  them !  And  nothing  to  be 
done !  Nothing  to  be  even  attempted ! 

In  spite  of  himself,  Fargue  shrinks  back  and  turns 
his  head,  glancing  round  the  turret  with  a  tragic 
expression.  Ho !  The  horror-filled  eyes  of  the 
officer  have  met  the  strained  eyes  of  his  subordinates, 
the  twelve  men  who  have  seen  what  he  has  seen, 
who  understand  as  well  as  he  does,  who  are  waiting 
as  he  is,  for  death — twelve  men  who  nevertheless 
stand  at  their  positions  motionless,  silent,  disciplined 
.  .  .  Oh !  the  noble,  the  sublime  machine !  The  blood 
rushes  proudly  through  Fargue's  heart.  Let  Death 
come!  The  turret  is  ready.  With  an  epic  gesture 
the  lieutenant  tears  his  cap  from  his  head,  and  throws 
it  on  the  ground  to  salute  in  advance  the  thirteen 
corpses  who  will  soon  be  slumbering  in  death,  each 
hero  at  his  post.  Then  Fargue  thrusts  his  head  into 
the  sighting-hood,  and  settles  himself  face  to  face 
with  death,  motionless,  silent,  disciplined  .  .  . 

Death  comes  on  apace.  The  Eckmull  is  cleaving 
the  seas  with  the  speed  of  a  locomotive.  The  colos- 
sal mass  grows  and  grows  and  grows.  Her  stern 
cutting  like  a  sword,  throws  off  the  water  on  either 
side  with  a  sharp  ripple  as  she  approaches  the  side 
of  the  Fontenoy.  How  many  seconds  more?  Thirty? 
Fifteen?  Ten?  .  .  .  Her  forecastle,  crowded  with 
men  who  have  collected  there  gesticulating,  rushes 
on  them  like  an  avalanche.  .  .  .  Fargue,  his  eyes 
hypnotized,  does  not  even  notice  that  the  blue-and- 
white  quartered  flag  is  flying  from  the  mizzen,  a 
signal  that  the  Eckmull  is  "going  astern"  with  the 
whole  force  of  her  three  engines :  twenty  thousand 
horse-power  fighting  in  desperation  to  soften  the  ter- 


ioo  THE  TURRET 

rible  shock.  Nor  does  Fargue  realize  that  the  deck 
beneath  him  is  quivering  with  effort:  the  Fontenoy 
is  steaming  ahead  with  every  ounce  of  steam  avail- 
able, trying  desperately  to  pass,  to  clear  the  fatal 
ram.  Six  propellers  are  twisting  and  twirling  under 
water  for  the  common  salvation. 

Will  it  be  possible  to  clear?  .  .  .  The  whole  hull 
of  the  Fontenoy  is  now  vibrating.  The  Fontenoy 
means  to  elude  death.  She  has  got  into  her  speed. 
She  hurls  herself  through  the  waves,  she  races.  And 
the  Eckmull,  checked  by  her  engines,  which  are  work- 
ing as  they  never  worked  before,  slackens,  slackens. 
Will  they  clear? 

They  are  clearing.  Heavens!  How  close!  .  .  . 
There  is  not  twenty  feet  between  the  prow  of  the 
Eckmull  and  the  stern  of  the  Fontenoy.  .  .  .  But 
what  matter  twenty  feet  or  twenty  inches.  .  .  . 
They  have  cleared !  .  .  .  They  have  passed. 

Three  drops  of  sweat  stand  out  like  pearls  on 
Fargue's  forehead.  All  the  blood  has  fled  from  his 
cheeks.  He  lowers  his  head  to  look  at  his  men. 
Not  one  has  stirred;  not  one  has  uttered  a  sound. 

And  Fargue,  his  eyes  on  the  receivers,  begins 
coldly  issuing  his  orders  again: 

"Train  right,  third  speed.  .  .  .  Range,  eight 
thousand  four  hundred.  Deflection,  sixteen  thou- 
sandths . 


LEON  FRAPIE 


LioN  FRAPI£  is  best  known  as  the  author  of  La  Maternelle,  a 
collection  of  stories  about  the  French  elementary  schools  which 
was  awarded  the  Prix  Goncourt.  It  has  been  followed  by  several 
volumes  of  Conies  de  la  Maternelle,  from  one  of  which  "The 
Pockets"  is  taken. 


XI 

THE  POCKETS 
By  LEON  FRAPIE 

THE  two  hundred  pupils  of  the  Infants'  School 
being  gathered  together  in  the  playground, 
Madame  la  Directrice  orders  an  unexpected  inspec- 
tion of  pockets. 

The  children  are  not  allowed  to  carry  on  them 
any  object  that  it  would  be  dangerous  to  put  in  the 
mouth,  which  could  hurt  them  when  they  fall,  or 
with  which  they  could  hurt  their  companions.  In 
other  words,  pockets  must  not  contain  anything  but 
handkerchiefs  and  good  marks. 

The  inspection  of  those  of  the  little  ones  is  soon 
over;  most  of  them  have  no  pockets,  a  rag  that 
serves  for  handkerchief  being  stitched  under  their 
aprons.  But  the  others,  the  big  ones  of  four  and 
five  and  six  years  old,  are  almost  always  at  fault, 
and  the  teachers  have  to  carry  little  baskets  in  which 
to  place  the  confiscated  objects. 

What  a  harvest !  The  poorer,  the  more  miserable 
the  child,  the  stronger  the  instinct  to  pick  up  things. 
The  pupils  at  the  Platrier's  Infants'  School  make  a 
point  of  searching  the  dust-bins  every  morning  as 
they  go  to  school. 

Soon  the  baskets  are  full  of  a  surprising  variety 
of  rubbish:  corks,  fruit-stones,  nails,  bones,  bits  of 

103 


104  THE  POCKETS 

zinc,  of  leather,  of  glass,  of  stone,  of  wood,  frag- 
ments of  pipes,  of  combs,  of  feeding-bottles,  empty 
blacking-boxes,  medicine  bottles,  etc. 

The  teachers  are  too  used  to  this  kind  of  discov- 
ery, and  too  busy,  to  waste  time  either  in  scolding 
or  in  asking  for  explanations.  A  speech  from  the 
Directrice  reprimands  all  the  offenders,  warning 
them  that  accidents  will  continue  to  happen  so  long 
as  they  disobey  orders. 

To-day,  however,  three  children  are  taken  apart 
because  of  the  following  discoveries :  twelve  francs 
and  fifty  centimes  in  silver,  wrapped  in  paper,  in  the 
pocket  of  Eulalie  Blant;  a  little  penny  notebook, 
quite  new,  in  the  pocket  of  Louis  Galtousse;  a  knife 
that  opens  and  shuts  in  the  pocket  of  Georges  Melie. 

They  are  to  be  sent,  one  after  another,  into  the 
room  of  Madame  la  Directrice,  who  will  question 
them  and  act  in  accordance  with  circumstances. 


"Well,  Eulalie,  and  where  does  this  money  come 
from?" 

"Madame,  it's  the  money  for  the  rent;  mother 
gives  it  to  me  to  keep  because  if  she  didn't,  she'd 
spend  it.  If  I  keep  it  the  rent  gets  paid." 

A  silence.  The  Directrice  soon  decides  there  is 
nothing  wrong  here.  Probably  the  mother  drinks 
or  has  some  other  vice  that  leads  her  to  spending 
all  she  earns,  and  though  this  child  is  only  six  years 
old,  her  pale,  pinched  face,  pointed  nose  and  sharp 
little  chin  give  an  impression  that  makes  you  believe 
her  capable  of  dominating  the  will  of  a  weak  per- 
son . 


THE  POCKETS  105 

''That's  all  right,  my  child;  be  careful  your  pocket 
doesn't  come  unsewn." 


Enter  Louis  Galtousse. 

"You  stole  this  notebook  from  one  of  the  counters 
outside  the  bazaar.  No,  it's  no  use  denying  it,  my 
boy;  here's  the  ticket  with  the  name  of  the  shop 
on  it." 

Ill-usage  has  made  the  face  of  Galtousse  into  a 
mask  set  in  lines  of  defiance.  He  is  developing  a 
morbid  impulse  to  steal,  steals  from  moral  distress, 
for  no  reason. 

The  Directrice  knows  it  is  no  use  threatening  him 
with  telling  his  parents  or  calling  in  a  policeman; 
he  is  too  hardened  to  misery  to  do  otherwise  than 
remain  totally  indifferent;  a  desire  for  revenge,  not 
repentance,  is  all  such  a  course  would  raise  in  him. 
Something  must  be  done  to  try  to  rouse  the  better 
part  in  him. 

The  Directrice  rings  for  the  school  attendant,  to 
whom  she  gives  a  rapid  glance  that  asks  for  collusion. 

"Come  in,  Rose.  This  notebook  has  been  stolen 
from  the  bazaar.  You  must  take  it  back  at  once." 

Rose  assumes  an  air  of  fear. 

"But  suppose  they  believe  it  was  I  who  stole  it?" 

"So  much  the  worse  for  you." 

"But  if  they  put  me  in  prison,  Madame?" 

"So  much  the  worse  for  you." 

Galtousse  looks  at  Rose.  He  imagines  Rose  in 
prison;  Rose  whose  kind  hands  are  always  ready  to 
help;  Rose,  who  listens  to  every  one's  troubles  and 
never  scolds.  .  .  .  Ah !  no !  even  misery  has  its 


io6  THE  POCKETS 

limit!  His  thin  little  body  jerks,  his  nose  contracts, 
his  eyes  wander,  his  chin  moves  up  and  down,  and 
he  begins  to  stammer. 

"I'll  never  do  it  again,  Madame  .  .  .  never  .  .  . 
never.  .  .  ." 

"Very  well,  I  forgive  you  this  time,  and  I  will 
arrange  the  matter  myself.  Go  back  to  your  class. 
And  you,  Rose,  please  send  Georges  Melie  to  me." 


Georges  Melie  has  a  sad  little  face,  sad  and  obsti- 
nate. The  knife  found  in  his  pocket  is  an  old,  inof- 
fensive one  that  might  be  used  at  meals  for  cutting 
up  your  bread  and  cheese. 

"Where  did  you  get  this  knife?" 

"I  asked  an  old  woman  to  give  it  to  me." 

"And  she  gave  it  to  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Long  ago?" 

"Oh,  yes,  a  long  time  ago." 

"Have  you  ever  taken  it  out  of  your  pocket  in 
school?" 

"Oh,  no,  Madame." 

"Then  why  have  you  got  it  in  your  pocket?" 

"To  defend  mother." 

Madame  la  Directrice  is  taken  with  a  sudden  fit  of 
coughing,  and  the  child  goes  on  without  being  ques- 
tioned : 

"I'm  not  going  to  let  any  one  hurt  mother.  I'm 
not  going  to  let  mother  go  again  to  the  hospital  .  .  . 
and  leave  me  all  alone  at  home." 

The  cough  of  Madame  la  Directrice  continues  to 


THE  POCKETS  107 

be  bad,  and  she  only  catches  odds  and  ends  of  the 
child's  explanation. 

.  .  .  "When  I  was  in  bed  in  the  dark  cupboard 
.  .  .  and  I  could  hear  .  .  .  and  she  was  calling 
'Help !'...!  had  nothing  to  defend  mother  with. 
I'm  not  going  to  let  any  one  hurt  mother  .  .  ." 

He  relapses  into  silence  and  waits,  his  eyes  fixed 
steadily  on  her  face. 

The  Directrice  is  perplexed.  She  knows  too  much 
about  the  circumstances  that  underlie  the  lives  of 
these  children  of  the  very  poor  to  have  anything  to 
say  about  the  facts  that  have  been  stated;  rules  for- 
bid her  to  allow  the  child  to  keep  the  knife,  but  she 
does  not  want  to  confiscate  it — and  all  it  means  to 
him. 

She  raises  her  eyes  with  an  air  of  distraction  to 
the  curtains  of  the  window,  and  suddenly  she  ex- 
claims: ^ 

"Good  gracious  me!  I'm  forgetting  that  Mon- 
sieur I'lnspecteur  is  coming  this  morning,  and  the 
books  not  ready  for  him !  .  .  .  What  was  that  you 
were  chattering  about  just  now,  little  one?  I've  no 
time  to  talk  to  you  now  .  .  .  no,  no,  not  another 
word!  Hold  this  for  me  .  .  ." 

She  gets  up,  opens  some  files,  and  places  a  pile 
of  papers  on  the  table,  and  as  she  pushes  them  about 
to  get  the  things  in  order,  the  knife  falls  on  the 
carpet  without  a  sound. 

She  turns  her  back  and  makes  a  long  search  among 
more  papers.  When  at  last  she  returns  to  her  desk, 
the  knife  is  not  on  the  floor. 

"Still  here!"  she  cries.  "What  are  you  waiting 
for?  Can't  you  see  I  have  no  time  to  listen  to  you 


io8  THE  POCKETS 

to-day?     Monsieur  1'Inspecteur  will  be  here  in  a 
moment — run  back  quickly  to  your  class  .  .  ." 


The  gas-lamps  are  already  flickering  faintly  in  the 
November  twilight  when,  at  four  o'clock,  the  chil- 
dren leave  the  Infants'  School.  Georges  Melie 
refuses  to  stop  and  play  with  them. 

As  he  hurries  quickly  home,  his  sad  little  face 
pensive  and  affectionate,  he  looks  like  a  good  child 
who  prefers  to  get  back  to  show  his  mother  his 
good  marks.  But  it  is  not  a  piece  of  paper  his  fist 
clutches  at  the  bottom  of  his  pocket. 


HUGUETTE  GARNIER 


HUGUETTE  GARNIER  is  well  known  as  a  journalist.  For  some 
years  she  has  edited  a  woman's  paper,  and  contributed  mis- 
cellaneous articles  to  others;  and  it  is  only  comparatively  recently 
that  she  has  appeared  as  a  writer  of  short  stories  in  Le  Journal, 
from  which  the  story  given  here,  "The  First  Short  Dress,"  is 
taken. 


XII 

THE  FIRST  SHORT  DRESS 
By  HUGUETTE  GARNIER 


come,  my  little  Solange,  do  stand  up 
straight!  And  don't  keep  your  eyes  on  the 
floor  like  that;  you  worry  me.  Who  could  have 
imagined  that  being  brought  up  in  a  convent  would 
have  made  a  young  girl  so  stupid?  Even  suppose 
you  do  look  at  yourself  in  the  glass,  you  Won't  be 
eternally  damned  for  it,  you  know  .  .  .  No?  .  .  . 
You  won't?  .  .  .  All  right  .  .  .  we'll  do  without 
your  opinion! 

"A  little  higher,  the  waist-line,  Madeleine,  there  ! 
.  .  .  like  that  ...  no  ...  still  a  little  higher. 
.  .  .  Cut  the  neck  down  heart-shape  .  .  .  The  skirt 
to  stand  out  a  little  at  the  hem.  .  .  .  No,  not  like 
that!  Better  tack  it  together  on  her;  you're  sure 
to  get  it  right  then. 

"It's  not  because  'Mademoiselle'  chooses  to  sulk 
that  she  need  look  like  a  packet.  Her  first  ball! 
.  .  .  The  first  time  I  can  show  her  .  .  .  Try  to 
make  her  do  me  credit. 

"Till  now  I've  been  obliged  to  keep  her  away 
from  me  ...  You  understand?  ...  I  put  her 
safely  in  a  convent  a  long  way  from  Paris.  Now  it's 
quite  different.  Monsieur  de  Breuil  lost  his  mother, 
and  we  were  able  to  be  married.  You  didn't  know 

in 


ii2  THE  FIRST  SHORT  DRESS 

we  had  lived  together  before?  ...  If  I'd  thought 
that,  I  shouldn't  have  said  anything  about  it!  But 
that's  me,  and  I  shall  always  be  the  same.  I  can't 
help  taking  people  into  my  confidence;  must  tell 
everything. 

"Blue  ribbon?  Rose  ribbon?  Both  ...  I  like 
that  Pompadour  effect.  It's  young;  it's  fresh;  it 
looks  festive.  Yes,  I  like  it  very  much :  use  the  two. 

"Why  can't  you  give  your  opinion,  Solange,  in- 
stead of  putting  on  that  lonely-orphan  expression  of 
yours?  I  don't  understand  that  chit  .  .  .  not  a 
word  to  say  for  herself,  and  never  any  enthusiasm. 
Talk  of  ingratitude — thanks  to  her  I  know  all 
about  it! 

"No,  don't  try  to  excuse  her.  It  serves  her  right 
if  I  do  say  it  before  her. 

"It's  not  as  if  she  had  anything  to  complain  about. 
At  that  convent  of  the  Ladies  of  the  Rosary — it's 
every  bit  as  good  as  Les  Oiseaux — she  mixed  with 
all  the  best  people  in  the  town :  the  daughters  of  the 
lawyers,  the  officers  and  the  doctors.  There  were 
even  two  titled  young  ladies  in  her  class!  I  heard 
one  of  the  nuns  calling  out  names  a  yard  long:  'Syl- 
vie  de  Langeac  d'Arbois  .  .  .  Isabelle  d'Arthys  de 
Grandclos'  .  .  .  and  side  by  side  by  them  was  my 
Solange.  Ah!  it  wasn't  an  easy  job  to  get  her  in 
there.  .  .  .  But  when  you've  got  friends  with  influ- 
ence .  .  .  You  might  think  she'd  be  grateful  to  me? 
Yes,  you  may  well  turn  your  head  away!  .  .  . 
You've  made  my  heart  ache  many  a  time ! 

"When  I  used  to  go  into  the  parlor  you'd  think 
she  was  ashamed  of  me  1  Fortunately  I  only  went 
twice  a  year  .  .  .  And  you  may  take  it  from  me  I 


THE  FIRST  SHORT  DRESS  113 

didn't  go  there  with  empty  hands.  If  she's  not 
spoilt,  it's  not  the  fault  of  Bon  Ami  .  .  .  It's  true 
he  knew  her  when  she  was  a  tiny  tot;  four  or  five 
years  old,  just  before  I  sent  her  to  the  convent.  I 
can  safely  say  I  didn't  start  life  in  a  big  way — alone 
at  seventeen  with  a  baby  in  my  arms !  .  .  .  I  tried 
to  get  on  the  stage  as  a  dancer.  It  wasn't  all  fun, 
I  assure  you  .  .  .  It's  very  hard  for  a  woman  to 
pull  through  by  herself.  ...  I  don't  know  what 
would  have  'happened  if  Bon  Ami  hadn't  come  along 
just  then  .  .  . 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?  .  .  .  Do  you  feel 
faint?  .  .  .  Why  are  you  shrinking  down  like  that? 
Stand  straight,  at  least  while  the  pleats  are  being 
arranged  .  .  .  Not  so  full  as  that,  Madeleine  .  .  . 
She's  very  well  made,  the  child;  she  takes  after  me. 
The  bust  is  remarkably  well  developed  for  sixteen. 
Oh,  look  at  her  blushing!  .  .  .  Think  of  blushing 
for  that! 

"Where  had  I  got  to?    Oh,  yes,  to  my  visits. 

"When  I  went  in,  she  used  to  look  quickly  round 
as  if  she  was  uneasy.  Good  heavens,  I  hope  I  did 
show  up  against  the  other  mothers !  A  lot  of  dow- 
dies dressed  anyhow,  no  figures,  straight  hair.  In 
those  days  my  hair  was  straw-colored,  a  bright  gold, 
like  sunshine.  Do  you  remember  that  shade?  .  .  . 
It  was  all  the  fashion  and  it  suited  me.  .  .  .  Victorin 
had  just  got  the  right  tint.  ...  I  was  very  sorry 
when  he  died !  No  one,  I  tell  you,  nobody  else  any- 
where was  able  to  make  me  look  so  fair.  But  when 
I  saw  it  was  getting  serious  with  Monsieur  de  Breuil, 
I  had  rny  hair  done  darker,  golden-brown. 

"Golden  or  golden-brown,  I  always  made  a  sen- 


ii4  THE  FIRST  SHORT  DRESS 

sation  among  the  ladies  of  the  Rosary.  A  picture 
hat,  a  suspicion  of  rouge,  and  they  seemed  to  be 
stupefied.  And  Solange  used  to  look  at  me  in  the 
same  way.  She  used  to  come  in  as  if  she  was  afraid, 
all  covered  up  in  a  long  gray  dress  with  a  hood,  and 
a  cross  hanging  round  her  neck  on  a  black  moire 
ribbon.  That  awful  gray  dress !  .  .  .  I  shall  never 
be  able  to  forget  it  ...  quite  flat  and  very  long 
...  so  long  that  it  covered  the  tops  of  her  laced-up 
shoes. 

"She'd  sit  down,  cross  her  hands,  and  hang  her 
head — just  like  she's  lowering  it  now.  Look  at  her! 
I  once  asked  the  Mother  Superior:  'Reverend 
Mother,  does  my  little  girl  ever  look  happy  and 
light-hearted?'  The  Mother  Superior  didn't  answer, 
she  just  stroked  the  child's  hair  softly.  I  admired 
her  beautiful  hand,  not  manicured  at  all,  but  just  like 
a  wax  model — it's  only  nuns  who  have  hands  like 
that — and  her  eyes  looked  like  deep  lakes  in  her 
pale,  calm  face.  I  was  very  sorry  for  her  for  having 
lost  her  beauty,  and  I  didn't  repeat  my  question. 

"Tighter,  the  sleeve,  and  higher  on  the  shoulder. 
...  A  cloud  of  tulle  ?  Little  roses  on  the  hem  of 
the  frills  ?  Try  them,  we'll  see. 

"They  are  dull  places,  those  convents,  deadly  dull. 
I  adore  my  daughter,  but  when  I  had  walked  about 
with  her  for  an  hour  or  two,  she  never  opening  her 
mouth,  in  a  great  park  where  you  see  nobody  but 
children  in  gray  dresses  and  nun  hoods,  I  really 
didn't  know  what  to  do.  To  be  quiet  like  that  takes 
it  out  of  me  so.  Every  woman  has  her  own  nature, 
hasn't  she? 

"I  was  glad  when  at  last  the  chapel-bell  began  to 


THE  FIRST  SHORT  DRESS  115 

ring.  I  used  to  watch  for  it  over  the  top  of  the  oak 
trees.  I  saw  it  move  as  if  it  was  balancing  itself 
before  flying  up  ...  then  the  chimes  came  out  in 
notes  like  gold  that  seemed  to  fall  on  the  old  trees 
and  the  smooth  lawns,  on  the  statue  of  the  Virgin, 
on  the  white  pebbles — on  my  heart.  In  spite  of  my- 
self I  used  to  feel  as  if  I  were  delivered  from  some- 
thing very  disagreeable.  I  used  to  say  to  myself: 
'There !  That's  over  for  the  next  six  months.'  And 
I  used  to  think  about  the  train  back,  about  my 
friends,  about  a  pink  satin  bedspread  .  .  .  anything, 
no  matter  what!  Stupid,  wasn't  it?  But  then  I'm 
so  home-loving !  I'm  never  really  happy  except  when 
I'm  in  my  own  place. 

"When  I  got  to  the  end  of  the  path  I  used  to 
turn  round  to  wave  good-by  to  her.  She  used  to  be 
standing  like  a  statue  behind  the  grille  watching  me 
go.  No  fear  of  her  throwing  a  kiss  after  me !  Not 
to  be  thought  of  ... 

"Oh,  splendid,  Madeleine !  That  drapery  is  some- 
thing quite  new !  .  .  . 

"But  that  didn't  prevent  me  feeling  very  happy 
when  Monsieur  de  Breuil  told  me  I  could  go  and 
bring  her  home.  I  thought  that  Solange  would 
throw  her  arms  round  my  neck,  clap  her  hands,  and 
that  we'd  go  back  together  gossiping  like  two  friends. 
Sixteen !  At  that  age  a  girl  ought  to  understand  all 
sorts  of  things.  What  didn't  I  know  when  I  was 
sixteen ! 

"Well  not  a  bit  of  it!  When  I  told  her  I'd  come 
to  take  her  away,  she  just  stood  and  looked  at  me 
...  I  thought  she  was  going  to  be  ill.  She  clutched 
the  stone  seat  with  her  two  hands  as  if  I  was  going 


ii6  THE  FIRST  SHORT  DRESS 

to  drag  her  away  by  force,  stammered,  choked: 
'She  didn't  want  to  leave  the  convent  where  she  had 
grown  up  ...  nor  her  friends  .  .  .  nor  Sister 
Michele-des-Anges  who  loved  her  so  much'  .  .  .  the 
silly  prattle  of  a  little  girl.  I  didn't  pay  any  atten- 
tion to  it;  I  was  certain  that  when  that  hideous  gray 
robe  was  taken  off  her,  and  her  hair  arranged  in 
curls,  she'd  quickly  change  her  ideas.  .  .  . 

"But  I  reckoned  without  her  character.  How  dis- 
appointing children  are !  Impossible  to  get  her  inter- 
ested in  anything.  She'll  sit  for  hours  together  with- 
out opening  her  mouth,  her  mind  miles  away.  My 
husband  thinks  she  is  getting  religious  mania  .  .  . 
nice  for  me,  isn't  it? 

"Do  leave  off  twisting  your  handkerchief  into  rags 
like  that ! 

"You'll  admit  I  haven't  much  luck  with  her.  I'm 
the  only  one  among  all  my  friends  who  has  a  speci- 
men of  this  kind  .  .  .  The  others  have  daughters 
who  look  like  pictures,  pleasant,  affectionate,  ready 
for  anything;  real  little  women  who  steal  their  moth- 
ers' silk  stockings  and  go  out  with  them  to  dances. 
But  this  one  looking  like  a  mute  at  a  funeral,  she'll 
end  by  spoiling  all  my  fun. 

"Look  here,  Madeleine,  you're  a  very  sensible 
woman,  you  talk  to  her !  Tell  her  what  she  owes  to 
her'family,  and  that  she  might  at  least  look  in  the 
glass  while  she's  being  -tried  on,  and  say  what  her 
own  ideas  about  her  dresses  are. 

"No  .  .  .  that  won't  do  at  all!  ...  the  skirt 
is  too  long.  She  can  afford  to  show  her  legs,  she 
can  .  .  .  make  it  shorter  .  .  .  still  shorter,  Made- 
leine. That's  it.  Leave  it  just  below  the  knee. 


THE  FIRST  SHORT  DRESS  117 

"So  that  interests  you,  that  detail,  does  it?  At 
last  you  deign  to  raise  your  eyes  and  look.  Yes, 
look  at  it,  my  Solange,  it's  your  first  short  frock! 
Aren't  you  pleased  with  it?  But  what's  wrong  now? 
What's  the  matter  with  the  silly  child?  .  .  .  Cry- 
ing? .  .  .  Crying?!' 


GYP 


GYP,  otherwise  the  Comtesse  de  Martel  de  Janville,  and  a  great- 
grand-niece  of  Mirabeau,  was  born  in  1850  at  the  Chateau  de 
Coet-Sal,  Morbihan.  She  came  into  prominence  as  a  writer  in 
1883,  when  she  began  a  series  of  dialogues  in  La  Vie  Parisienne, 
signing  herself  consecutively  A  'Quick,  Scamp,  and  finally  Gyp. 
Since  then  she  has  published  over  one  hundred  novels,  has  had 
eight  plays  produced,  and  several  of  her  books  are  illustrated  by 
herself  as  Bob.  "Flirtation"  comes  from  a  volume  of  short  stories 
called  La  Fee  Surprise. 


MADAME  DE  TREMBLE, 
FOLLEUIL. 

A  Small  Salon 

ly/TADAME  DE  TREMBLE  (seated  in  a  low 
-L*-"-  chair  by  the  side  of  the  fire,  is  thinking) .  To- 
day I've  had  nothing  but  boring  callers  .  .  .  the 
Dowager  de  la  Balue,  Madame  de  Reche  and  Cecile 
de  Valtanant  .  .  .  they  were  very  gracious,  but  their 
remarks  were  all  either  bitter-sweet  or  pointed.  .  .  . 
Monsieur  d'Orange  and  Montespan  .  .  .  they're 
not  more  boring  than  the  others,  but  they  will  flirt, 
and  that  exasperates  me!  ...  [FOLLEUIL  appears 
at  the  end  of  the  roomJ\  Why,  there's  Folleuil! 
.  .  .  (aside)  They  say  that  Folleuil  is  a  "remark- 
able" man  ...  I  wonder  if  he,  too,  will  flirt? 
We'll  see.  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL.  You  are  alone!  .  .  .  that's  strange 
...  as  a  rule  your  salon  is  so  crowded  with  ad- 
mirers. 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE  (coquettishly).  Do  you 
mind?  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL  (aside).    What's  this?  .  .  .   (Aloud.) 

121 


122  FLIRTATION 

I  mind  .  .  .  without  minding.  .  .  .  [MADAME  DE 
TREMBLE  stretches  her  foot  out  towards  the  fire.~\ 
Yes,  yes  .  .  .  your  feet  are  lovely  .  .  .  that's  un- 
derstood .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE  (shrugging  her  shoul- 
ders). It's  not  to  show  them  to  you  that  I  am  warm- 
ing them  .  .  .  it's  because  I  am  very  cold  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL.  What  madness  to  wear  little  stock- 
ings of  nothing  at  all  like  those !  .  .  .  What  are  they 
made  of,  your  stockings?  .  .  .  tulle?  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.    Silk  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL.  Ash-gray  silk  .  .  .  certainly  very 
pretty,  but  it  doesn't  look  very  warm,  ash-gray  silk? 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  Suppose  they  are  ash- 
gray  or  another  color,  I  don't  quite  see  ... 

FOLLEUIL.    Have  I  said  a  stupid  thing?  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  Do  you  count  the  stupid 
things  you  say?  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL.  You  are  hard!  .  .  .  (Looking  criti- 
cally at  her.)  It's  true  .  .  .  your  feet  must  be 
cold  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE  (astonished).  How  can 
you  see  that?  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL.  By  the  end  of  your  little  nose,  which 
is  beginning  to  grow  red  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE  (getting  up  and  looking  in 
the  mirror).  Yes,  you're  quite  right!  .  .  .  Bah! 
I  don't  care !  .  .  .  to-day  I  am  not  seeing  any  one 

FOLLEUIL.  Not  seeing  any  one!  .  .  .  And  me? 
What  about  me?  ...  You  don't  care  whether  I 
admire  you?  .  .  , 


FLIRTATION  123 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.    Not  at  all !  ... 

FOLLEUIL  (aside).  I  wonder  if  by  any  chance 
she's  sincere.  ...  If  so,  I'm  wasting  my  time !  .  .  . 
(Aloud.}  Oh!  ...  So  you  don't  care  about  pleas- 
ing me  ?  ...  well,  that's  not  how  I  feel  with  regard 
to  you  .  .  .  very  much  the  contrary!  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  You  are  very  kind,  and 
I  am  very  flattered!  .  .  .  Dear!  dear!  It  looks  as 
if  the  rain  had  changed  to  hail !  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL  (annoyed}.  Don't  try  to  change  the 
subject  with  your  rain  that  changes  to  hail.  .  .  . 
You're  going  to  try  to  stop  my  saying  what  I  want 
to,  aren't  you?  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE  (feigning  astonishment}. 
Have  you  something  to  say  to  me  ?  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL  (nervous}.  Yes  .  .  .  and  you  know 
it.  ...  [He  rises,  walks  up  and  down  the  room 
several  times,  and  finally  stops  behind  MADAME  DE 
TREMBLE.]  Are  they  your  own,  those  delicious  curls 
that  hang  on  your  neck  like  a  curly  wig?  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.    No  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL.  Yes,  I'm  certain  they  are!  ...  If 
they  were  artificial  you'd  say  they  weren't  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.    What  nonsense !  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL.  Naturally!  .  .  .  and  then  if  they 
weren't  your  own  they  would  be  better  curled  .  .  . 
and  of  a  more  uniform  shade  .  .  .  this  hair  is 
striped  like  marble  .  .  .  only  you  could  have  strange 
hair  like  that!  .  .  .  (A  pause.}  I  say  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.    What?  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL.  You  must  look  a  funny  little  person 
when  you  wake  in  the  morning  ...  I  am  sure  your 
hair  is  like  a  mop,  and  that  your  ears  are  red?  .  .  . 


124  FLIRTATION 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  Do  you  know  you  are 
taking  a  strange  tone  ?  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL.  Oh !  You're  going  to  become  as  ... 
proper  as  that?  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  No  .  .  .  but  you  have 
a  habit  of  speaking  very  familiarly  .  .  .  and  when 
a  man  speaks  like  that  to  a  woman,  it  is  she  and  not 
he  that  people  blame  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL.  People!  .  .  .  they  can't  hear  us  at 
the  present  moment,  your  people !  .  .  .  and  I'm  the 
last  to  complain  because  they  can't  .  .  .  what  I  said 
just  now  was  not  disagreeable  ...  it  is  very  pretty 
to  have  red  ears  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE  (resigned).  You  are  go- 
ing back  to  that?  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL.    It  is  a  sign  of  youth  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  You  just  hit  it  with  your 
youth !  ...  I  am  thirty  to-day  ...  or,  to  be  quite 
exact,  I  shall  be  at  six  o'clock  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL  (looking  at  his  watch).  In  thirty-five 
minutes !  .  .  .  What  luck  to  find  myself  here !  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  You  think  I'm  going  to 
age  suddenly  as  they  do  in  fairy-tales?  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL.  No,  that's  not  the  reason  .  .  .  and 
you  know  as  well  as  I  do  what  I  mean  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  I  swear  I  have  not  the 
least  idea  what  can  give  you  happiness  in  the  thought 
that  in  half-an-hour  I  shall  be  thirty  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL.  Good  heavens !  Don't  you  know  that 
at  that  moment  one  always  kisses  the  person  with 
whom  one  happens  to  be  ...  it's  a  recognized  cus- 
tom! . 


FLIRTATION  125 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE  (laughing].  Really?  .  .  . 
And  you  think  that  I'm  going  to  kiss  you?  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL.  If  you  prefer  me  to  kiss  you,  I  like 
that  quite  as  well !  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE  (stupefied).  Kiss  me! 
.  .  .  here!  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL.  Here  or  elsewhere,  it's  all  the  same 
to  me!  .  .  .  Anyway,  we're  quite  all  right  here! 
...  no  one  can  see  us  ... 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.    That  makes  it  worse! 

FOLLEUIL.  What  is  certain  is  that  I  glue  myself 
here.  .  .  .  \He  sits  down.]  And  that  I  don't  move 
till  the  clock  strikes  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  You  are  wandering  in 
your  mind !  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL.  Not  in  the  very  least  ,  .  .  It's  al- 
ways like  that.  .  .  .  It's  the  custom.  .  .  .  Consult 
the  learned  men  and  you  will  see  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE  (laughing).  Yes,  that's 
it  ...  I  will  first  consult  some  learned  men!  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL  (piqued).  Why  not  say  at  once  that 
you  don't  want  to  kiss  me!  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  Most  certainly  I  will 
say  so !  ...  You  are  becoming  impossible  .  ..  . 

FOLLEUIL.  Impossible?  .  .  .  because  I  am  try- 
ing to  make  you  understand  what  is  in  my  heart? 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  What  did  you  say?  .  .  . 
I  believe,  heaven  pardon  me,  you  spoke  of  a  heart? 

FOLLEUIL.    But  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.     A  heart?  .      ,  You! 


126  FLIRTATION 

Come,  come  .  .  .  would  you  like  me  to  explain  to 
you  the  little  intrigue,  not  at  all  complicated,  that  is 
running  in  your  mind?  .  .  .  You  said  to  yourself: 
"Madame  de  Tremble  has  come  back  from  the  coun- 
try much  too  soon.  .  .  .  She  is  almost  the  only  per- 
son in  Paris  ...  it  is  probable  that  she  is  bored 
.  .  .  she  has  been  a  widow  for  two  years;  she  must 
be  on  the  point  ...  it  is  my  opportunity,  now  or 
never,  to  propose  myself  as  a  candidate."  .  .  . 
Come,  come,  isn't  it  so  ? 

FOLLEUIL.    Well,  supposing  it  is  ?  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  Come,  then,  speak!  I 
await  your  profession  of  faith !  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL.  You  joke  about  the  most  serious 
things  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  You  call  that  a  serious 
thing?  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL  (a  little  nervously).  Yes,  indeed,  there 
you  have  it!  ...  I  am  one  of  those  feeble-minded 
people  who  find  love  a  serious  thing  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE  (with  a  candid  look).  I 
beg  your  pardon?  When  was  it  a  question  of  love? 

•     •      • 

FOLLEUIL.  Pretend  not  to  understand  if  you  like. 
...  I  have  loved  you  for  a  long  time,  and  I  ... 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  Oh!  no!  ...  not  that, 
I  beg  of  you !  .  .  .  avoid  at  least  the  absurdity  of 
telling  me  ...  me  ...  that  you  love  me !  ... 

FOLLEUIL  (trying  to  justify  himself).  Yes  .  .  . 
I  love  you !  .  .  .  Yes !  .  .  .  yes !  .  .  .  yes !  .  .  . 
do  you  hear  me?  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE  (ironically).  And  since 
when?  . 


FLIRTATION  127 

FOLLEUIL  (confused}.  Since  .  .  .  since  .  .  . 
how  am  I  to  know?  .  .  .  what  a  question  to  askl 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  Embarrassing,  isn't  it? 
.  .  .  Do  tell  me  just  how  it  began!  ...  I  should 
love  to  hear  all  about  it  ... 

FOLLEUIL.    You  are  very  unkind  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  Not  at  all !  ...  but  I 
can't  help  feeling  amused!  .  .  .  Never  before  have 
you  paid  me  any  special  attention  .  .  .  never  once ! 
...  I  have  even  been  the  recipient  of  your  confi- 
dences, a  very  colorless  part  to  play,  you  must  agree, 
but  which  permitted  me  nevertheless,  to  see  to  what 
an  extent  you  liked  .  .  .  change.  .  .  .  Between  our- 
selves, it's  the  only  thing  you  do  like!  .  .  .  You 
never  even  deigned  to  notice  me,  and  now,  all  of  a 
sudden  .  .  .  without  any  warning  .  .  .  without  any 
reason  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL.    How  without  any  reason?  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  Without  any  good  rea- 
son. .  .  .  No,  this  is  how  it  is  ...  there  is,  or 
rather,  there  is  going  to  be  in  your  existence  a  ... 
what  shall  I  call  it?  ...  a  vacancy  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL  (protesting}.    Oh!  ... 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  Yes,  a  vacancy!  .  .  . 
You  looked  round  wondering  vaguely  who  would  be 
able  to  fill  the  threatened  void  .  .  .  and  just  at  that 
very  moment  you  were  passing  my  door  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL  (uncomfortably}.  Not  at  all  .  .  .  not 
at  all  ... 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE  (continuing}.  You  said 
to  yourself:  "Why  there's  the  little  De  Tremble! 
.  .  .  and  indeed,  why  not?  .  .  .  she's  not  bad- 


128  FLIRTATION 

looking  .  .  .  she's  vivacious  and  good-hearted  .  .  . 
we  belong  to  the  same  set  ...  she's  said  to  be  pos- 
sible ...  it  will  be  a  nice  pastime,  no  trouble  con- 
nected with  it,  and  it  won't  in  any  way  change  my 
little  habits !  .  .  ."  Then  you  thought  a  little  .  .  . 
oh,  just  a  little  .  .  .  not  long  .  .  .  and  you  decided 
to  go  ahead  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL  (somewhat  embarrassed) .  There's  not 
a  word  of  truth  in  all  that !  .  .  .  I  love  you  because 
you  are  adorable  .  .  .  you're  not  in  the  least  like 
other  women !  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE  (laughing).  I  was  expect- 
ing that  I  ...  When  a  man  tells  a  woman  that  she 
is  pretty,  witty,  anything  in  the  gracious  line,  he 
knows  he  never  can  count  on  anything  like  the  effect 
produced  by  that:  "You're  not  in  the  least  like  other 
women!"  Please  go  on  ... 

FOLLEUIL.  Well,  the  truth  is  I  didn't  dare  "go 
ahead"  as  you  call  it  ...  I  was  afraid  of  being 
dismissed  at  the  first  word.  ...  I  felt  sure  you  were 
much  more  serious  than  you  seemed  to  be  ... 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  But  that  is  extremely 
flattering  for  me!  .  .  .  Do  you  mean  to  say  you 
admit  that  any  woman  could  resist  you  ?  .  .  .  you  ? 

•     •     • 

FOLLEUIL.  Oh !  don't  laugh !  ...  it  really  is  a 
compliment,  for  there  are  very  few  women  from 
whom  one  can  fear  that!  .  .  .  Come,  let  us  talk 
seriously  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE  (making  a  little  grimace) . 
Oh!  No! 

FOLLEUIL.  Yes !  .  .  .  Tell  me  ...  it  is  impos- 
sible that  you  can  have  arrived  at  your  age  .  .  . 


FLIRTATION  129 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE  (laughing).  Thirty  at 
six  o'clock  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL.  Rest  assured  I'm  not  forgetting  it! 
...  It  is,  I  say  impossible  that  you  have  arrived  at 
that  age  without  ever  longing  for  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  I've  done  that  .  .  . 
often  .  .  .  but  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL  (deeply  interested).     But?  ?  ? 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  But  not  for  you !  Good 
heavens,  no !  .  .  .1  find  you  charming,  bright,  some- 
times amusing  .  .  .  not  to-day  .  .  .  but  you  are 
what  is  called  "An  Adventure-Hunter,"  and  you 
never  forget  it!  You  do  not  come  up  to  my  ideal 
.  .  .  for  however  stupid  it  may  seem  to  you,  I  also 
have  my  ideal  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL.  Ah!  .  .  .  And  is  it  possible  to  know 
it,  this  ideal?  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  No  ...  for  it  doesn't 
exist!  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL   (pointedly).     Are  you  sure  of  that? 

•     •      • 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  That  question  has  every 
appearance  of  impertinence.  .  .  .  How  can  you  be 
so  small!  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL  (with  an  air  of  deep  melancholy). 
When  one  is  very  unhappy !  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  Unhappy!  .  .  .  Now 
you're  spoiling  it  all!  ...  You  want  to  persuade 
me  that  all  this  is  serious?  .  .  .  But  that's  how  it 
always  is!  ...  at  a  given  moment,  even  an  intelli- 
gent man  behaves  like  .  .  .  the  others  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL.  Tell  me,  have  you  ever  loved  any 
one?  . 


130  FLIRTATION 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE  (without  conviction). 
Certainly  .  .  .  my  husband  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL  (incredulous).  Oh!  That!  .  .  .  No, 
I  mean  since  him  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  Anything  else  you'd  like 
to  ask?  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL.  Or  before  him?  ...  a  little  ro- 
mance, platonic  and  stupid  ...  all  girls  have  gone 
through  that !  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  No,  nothing!  .  .  .  not 
even  a  young  cousin  ...  or  a  "fatal"  professor 
with  long  hair  .  .  .  not  even  a  favorite  dancing 
partner  .  .  .  my  life  is  completely  lacking  in  roman- 
tic incidents  .  .  , 

FOLLEUIL.  And  when  you  married  .  .  .  weren't 
you  disappointed?  .  .  .  did  marriage  bring  you 
what  you  hoped  from  it?  ... 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  I  hoped  for  nothing. 
...  I  was  ignorant  of  everything !  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL  (cynically).    Oh!  of  everything!  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE  (emphasizing).  Of  every- 
thing! .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL.    Well  .  .  .  you  must  have  supposed 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  Nothing!  ...  I  was 
the  prey  of  a  vague  apprehension,  an  unreasonable 
terror  .  .  .  that's  all.  ...  I  had  the  same  sensa- 
tion one  has  at  the  theater,  when  one  knows  a  shot 
is  to  be  fired  at  the  end  of  the  piece,  without  know- 
ing exactly  with  which  weapon,  and  at  what  moment. 
...  I  wanted  to  stuff  up  my  ears  and  ask  to  go 
away  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL  (laughing).    Poor  old  Tremble !  .  .  . 


FLIRTATION  131 

(Serious.)  Tell  me  ...  at  the  present  time  they 
all  make  love  to  you  all  the  time,  don't  they?  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  If  any  one  asks  you,  you 
can  say  you  know  nothing  about  it.  ... 

FOLLEUIL.  I  beg  you  to  tell  me  ...  it  makes 
me  uneasy  .  .  .  (Aside.)  the  funny  part  of  it  is,  it's 
true;  it  does  worry  me!  Is  it  possible  that  I  really 
am  falling  in  love  with  her?  .  .  .  (Aloud.)  That 
beast  of  a  Saint  Leu,  I  expect?  .  .  .  (Insisting.) 
It  is  he,  isn't  it?  ... 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE  (vexed) .  He  and  the  oth- 
ers! ...  think  what  a  splendid  catch  I  am  ...  a 
widow  who  loses  her  fortune  if  she  marries  again! 

FOLLEUIL.  It's  true  a  man  must  have  a  certain 
confidence  in  himself  if  he  offers  himself  in  ... 
exchange  for  the  three  hundred  thousand  francs  a 
year  left  by  that  excellent  Tremble.  .  .  .  but  surely 
without  marrying  again  one  could  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.    Go  the  pace?  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL.  Oh,  why  such  an  ugly  expression? 
One  need  not  "go  the  pace"  as  you  say,  to  submit 
to  the  natural  law  and  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  And  according  to  you, 
the  natural  law  is  to  have  lovers  ?  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL.  Yes,  it's  quite  natural  for  a  woman 
to  have,  not  lovers,  but  a  lover  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  On  condition,  of  course, 
that  this  lover  is  yourself?  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL.  Of  course!  ...  I  don't  work  for 
others  .  .  .  and  besides,  I  repeat  I  adore  you  .  .  . 
(Aside.)  My  word,  I  begin  to  believe  it's  true  .  .  . 
(Aloud.)  Yes,  I  adore  you!  .  .  . 


i32  FLIRTATION 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.    Don't  let's  talk  of  that 

FOLLEUIL.  On  the  contrary,  let  us  speak  of  noth- 
ing else;  for  I  assure  you,  I  did  not  come  here  for 
any  other  reason.  .  .  .  Yes,  Madame,  I  am  going 
to  make  you  a  formal  declaration.  .  .  .  Oh,  you 
shall  not  prevent  my  speaking!  .  .  .  You  can't  stop 
me.  ...  I  tell  you  I  adore  you  .  .  .  and  for  a  long 
time,  too  .  .  .  for  six  months  at  least !  ...  At  first 
it  was  sub-conscious  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE    (laughing).     Ah,  bah! 

•     •     • 

FOLLEUIL  (working  himself  up).  When  I  be- 
came aware  of  it,  I  tried  not  to  think  of  you  .  .  . 
it  worried  me  to  find  myself  loving  any  one  as  much 
as  that  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE  (mockingly).  It  must  have 
been  a  change  for  you  ?  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL.  You're  right!  ...  I  gambled,  I 
traveled.  ...  I  began  to  play  the  fool  ...  it  was 
hard,  for  I'd  quite  forgotten  how  to  ...  I  spent  a 
lot  of  money,  I  fell  ill;  they  made  fun  of  me  .  .  . 
and  all  that  to  come  back  more  stupidly  in  love  than 
ever!  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE  (astonished).  How  odd 
you  are !  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL.  You  call  it  odd  ?  .  .  .  I  call  it  idiotic ! 
...  to  give  one's  heart  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE  (trying  to  joke).  Oh! 
his  heart !  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL.  Yes,  Madame,  his  heart!  .  .  .  and 
a  very  presentable,  very  well-preserved  heart,  I  as- 
sure you  .  .  .  and  to  give  it  to  a  coquette  .  .  . 


FLIRTATION  133 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  Oh !  no.  Not  that !  I 
am  not  a  coquette  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL  (raising  his  eyes  to  the  ceiling).  Not 
a  coquette?  .  .  .  You  are  a  coquette  to  the  marrow 
of  your  bones!  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  In  any  case,  I  believed 
I  had  never  coquetted  with  you !  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL  (vexed).  That  is  perfectly  true !  .  .  . 
(Becoming  tender  again.)  Well,  since  you  have 
nothing  to  fear  from  me,  let  yourself  go,  try  to  love 
me !  ...  I  ask  for  nothing  else  ...  I  am  not  ex- 
acting ...  I  love  you  so  tenderly  .  .  .  and  love 
is  so  good  .  .  .  you  have  never  known  what  it  is  ... 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE  (protesting).  How  do 
you  know  that?  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL.  I  knew  Tremble.  .  .  .  Poor  fellow 
...  I  wish  him  no  harm  .  .  .  above  all  at  pres- 
ent! .  .  .  but  I  am  very  certain  it  was  not  he  who 
.  .  .  and  always  provided  that  .  .  .  since  he  ... 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  That's  right!  Become 
impertinent  again!  .  .  .  Monsieur  de  Tremble  was 

FOLLEUIL.  Charming!  .  .  .  handsome!  .  .  .  ele- 
gant! ...  an  eagle!  ...  it  is  understood!  The 
absent  always  possess  all  the  virtues  .  .  .  there's  no 
way  of  verifying!  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.    But  really  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL  (working  himself  up).  But  nonsense! 
.  .  .  Far  better  for  a  woman  to  have  had  several 
adventures  than  one  husband  ...  at  least  she's 
silent  about  them  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  Go  on!  ...  go  on! 
.  .  .  Talk  nonsense  again!  .  .  . 


134  FLIRTATION 

FOLLEUIL  (almost  convinced) .  It  makes  me  very 
unhappy  to  see  that  you  are  determined  not  to  love 
me !  .  .  .  why  won't  you  ?  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  Won't  isn't  the  word 
.  .  .  can't  would  be  more  exact  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL.  What  shall  I  do  to  try  and  please  you. 
(Supplicating.}  Tell  me  ...  tell  me  ... 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  One  thing  .  .  .  only  one 
.  .  .  not  to  be  like  those  who  have  already  tried  . .  . 

FOLLEUIL.    Then  I'm  just  like  every  one  else? 

•     •      • 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  I  don't  say  that  .  .  . 
you  might  very  well  turn  any  woman's  head  .  .  . 
(a  pause}  except  mine  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL.  I  am  sure  also  that  you  do  your  best 
to  stop  yourself  from  falling  in  love  ...  or  from 
being  loved  .  .  .  you  are  afraid  of  gossip;  of  the 
opinion  of  society  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE  (quickly).  To  that  I  say 
no !  ...  I  don't  care  at  all  for  the  opinion  of  soci- 
ety! ...  many  people  criticize  me,  but  none  of 
them  know  me  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL.  Then  be  good  to  me!  .  .  .  Let  me 
adore  you  .  .  .  think!  .  .  .  Would  it  not  be  good 
to  have  a  true  love  which  envelops  without  troubling 
you?  ...  to  have  some  one  belong  to  you  ...  at 
your  orders  .  .  .  who  only  thinks  of  making  life 
bright  and  easy  for  you?  .  .  .  have  you  never 
longed  for  that?  .  .  .  Can't  you  imagine  how  the 
hours  fly  by  when  two  beings  who  love  each  other  are 
together?  .  .  .  What  .  .  .  has  no  one  ever  said  all 
that  to  you  before?  .  .  .  [He  takes  her  hand.] 


FLIRTATION  135 

You  have  never  listened  to  those  who  have  spoken 
to  you  of  love?  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE  (a  little  moved) .  I  might 
have  listened  if  they  had  spoken  like  you  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL  (radiant).    Do  you  really  mean  that? 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  Above  all,  if  they  hadn't 
spoken  at  all.  .  .  .  [ FOLLEUIL  starts.]  Yes  .  .  . 
the  love  I  dream  of  is  not  made  up  of  exaggerations, 
nor  even  of  words  at  all  ...  it  should  consist  of 
caresses,  of  silent  embraces  .  .  .  above  all,  silent 
.  .  .  always  silent  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL  (aside).  The  devil!  .  .  .  rather  diffi- 
cult at  the  point  we've  got  to  ... 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE  (dreamily).  I  always 
swore  I  would  not  love  any  man  who  was  not  superior 
to  myself  ...  a  remarkable  man  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL  (uneasy).    Ah!!  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  And  it  appears  you  are 
a  remarkable  man  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL  (modest).    Oh!    As  for  that  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE  (looking  kindly  at  him). 
Prove  to  me  that  you  are  that  man  .  .  .  and  I  am 
yours  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL  (amazed).    Mine,  you  are  mine?  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.    Yes  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL  (bewildered}.  You?  .  .  .  You  who 
just  now  said  "no"  with  such  unparalleled  decision? 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  Ah !  ...  A  woman  can 
change  her  mind!  .  .  .  (Smiling.)  You  are  very 
eloquent,  you  know.  .  .  .  Come,  let  us  continue  the 
conversation  .  .  .  where  did  we  leave  off?  ... 

FOLLEUIL  (losing  his  head).    But  you  are  asking 


136  FLIRTATION 

an  impossible  thing !  .  .  .  How  can  any  one  talk  to 
order  like  that?  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  But  I'm  not  asking  you 
to  be  brilliant  .  .  .  not  at  all  ...  only  be  a  little 
remarkable  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL.  It  is  paralyzing  to  be  talked  to  like 
this  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  That's  foolish  of  you! 
...  A  remarkable  man  should  never  be  paralyzed. 
.  .  .  You  should  leave  that  to  ordinary  people  for 
whom  it  is  a  great  resource  in  time  of  danger.  .  .  . 
Come,  talk  to  me  of  love  .  .  .  you  may  say  any- 
thing you  like  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL  (completely  nonplussed) .  What!  .  .  . 
It's  when  I  am  off  my  head  with  exaltation,  when  I 
can't  collect  my  ideas,  that  you  tell  me  to — it's 
enough  to  drive  a  man  mad!  .  .  .  (Aside.)  I  be- 
lieve I  am  going  mad  ...  I  don't  know  exactly 
what  I  feel,  but  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE  (listening  to  the  clock 
which  is  striking} .  Six  o'clock!  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL  (repeats  mechanically).  Six  o'clock. 
.  .  .  (Remembering.)  Oh,  yes!  .  .  .  [He  goes 
towards  MADAME  DE  TREMBLE  and  kisses  her  re- 
spectfully.'] Six  o'clock  .  .  .  you  are  thirty  .  .  . 
(Aside.)  And  I  ...  my  head  is  empty  and  my 
legs  are  made  of  cotton-wool  .  .  .  it's  horrible  .  .  . 
(To  MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.)  You  are  laughing? 

•     •     * 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  Yes  ...  do  you  know 
what  I'm  thinking?  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL.    No  .      .  what?  . 


FLIRTATION  137 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  I'm  thinking  that  if  I 
were  to  say  the  famous  "I  am  yours"  .  .  . 

FOLLEUIL.    Well?  .  .  . 

MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.  Well,  you  would  perhaps 
not  be  very  eager  to  ...  (Laughing.}  Oh,  what 
a  funny  face  you're  making!  .  .  .  [FOLLEUIL  takes 
up  his  hat.~\  When  are  you  coming  to  see  me  again? 

FOLLEUIL  (violently}.    Never!  .  .  . 
MADAME  DE  TREMBLE.    Quite  a  nice  ending!  .  .  . 
Charming  pastime,  flirtation!  .  .  . 


ABEL  HERMANT,  born  in  Paris  in  1862,  is  one  of  the  most  dis- 
tinguished writers  of  contemporary  France.  His  most  interesting 
work  is  perhaps  a  series  of  books,  Memoires  pour  ser-vir  a  I'his- 
toire  de  la  Societe,  which  includes  Les  Confidences  d'une  A'ieule, 
and  various  Souvenirs  and  Confessions.  He  is  also  the  author  of 
several  notable  plays.  "The  Wrist-Watch"  first  appeared  in  a 
Paris  newspaper,  Excelsior. 


XIV 
THE  WRIST-WATCH 

By  ABEL  HERMANT 

THINK  one  of  the  best  fellows  I  ever  met — an 
•••  Englishman,  and  therefore  the  best  possible — 

was  James  D .  Our  acquaintance  lasted  six 

years,  but  it  only  came  to  an  end  with  his  life  on  the 
tenth  of  July,  1919.  During  that  comparatively 
short  space  of  time  I  saw  James  exactly  seven  times, 
and  you  might  almost  count  the  words  that  passed 
between  us.  We  were  on  very  familiar  terms,  laugh- 
ing and  joking  together;  yet  we  never  seemed  to 
penetrate  beneath  the  surface.  I  knew  nothing  of 
his  affairs,  nor  he  of  mine,  and  in  reality  we  knew 
nothing  at  all  of  one  another.  We  certainly  never 
made  avowals  of  friendship,  unless  this  was  implied 
in  thumps  on  the  back  and  calling  each  other  "old 
boy."  Nevertheless,  I  had  the  conviction  that  he 
would  have  gone  to  his  death  for  me,  as  I  for  him, 
little  suspecting  that  I  should  live  to  wonder  whether 
I  had  not  indirectly  had  something  to  do  with  the 
cause  of  his  death. 

The  day  of  our  first  meeting  was  also  a  tenth  of 
July,  the  July  of  1913.  I  had  gone  about  mid-day 
to  the  Royal  Automobile  Club,  Pall  Mall.  The  day 
was  hot  and  oppressive,  and  there  were  many  bath- 

141 


142  THE  WRIST-WATCH 

ers  in  the  swimming-bath  in  the  basement  of  the 
building.  Although,  in  accordance  with  the  elemen- 
tary rules  of  good  manners  observed  in  England,  no 
one  paid  any  attention  to  me,  I  wanted  to  do  myself, 
and  perhaps  my  country,  credit,  and  I  had  thoughts 
of  making  a  splash  in  more  senses  than  one.  Among 
the  spring-boards  I  selected  one  that  seemed  likely 
to  do  justice  to  my  powers.  I  examined  it,  measured 
it,  tried  its  pliability,  and  took  a  dive,  which  though 
I  say  it  myself,  was  perhaps  worthy  of  their  notice; 
but  when  I  rose,  my  hands  still  together  above  my 
head,  my  arms  stretched  at  full  length,  I  could  not 
restrain  a  cry  of  vexation.  I  had  thought  of  every- 
thing— except  taking  off  my  wrist-watch! 

I  swam  as  fast  as  I  could  to  the  landing-place 
with  one  arm,  the  other  lifted  in  the  air;  but  the 
mischief  was  already  done;  my  watch  had  stopped. 
When  I  got  to  the  marble  steps,  I  was  greeted  (for 
the  elementary  rules  above-mentioned  are  subject  to 
exceptions)  with  ironical  condolence  and  the  most 
frantic  merriment  by  some  dozen  young  men  who 
had  witnessed  the  dive  and  watched  for  my  reappear- 
ance. The  English  are  a  simple  people;  a  trifle 
amuses  them;  they  even  seem  to  prefer  that  it  should 
be  a  trifle.  Some  of  them  told  me  that  they  had 
not  observed  my  oversight  until  the  moment  when  I 
was  planing  down ;  others  admitted,  with  candid  cyn- 
icism, that  frhey  had  seen  it  in  time,  and  could  have 
warned  me  of  it,  but  that  they  refrained  from  doing 
so,  because  they  had  such  a  curiosity  to  know  from 
actual  experience  how  a  wrist-watch  would  behave 
when  plunged  into  cold  water.  And  they  all  asked  in 
chorus:  "Has  it  stopped?"  For  they  are  passion- 


THE  WRIST-WATCH  143 

ately  fond  of  the  theater,  and  it  is  the  final  scene 
that  interests  them. 

I  noticed  James  D — — •  because  he  was  the  most 
outspoken  and  the  noisiest  of  the  group.  He  was 
then  twenty-two  years  of  age,  and  what  the  English 
call,  without  false  modesty,  a  splendid  fellow.  It 
was  no.t  so  much  his  size  and  build  that  distinguished 
him  from  the  others;  it  was  his  fine  face;  the  eyes 
so  frank,  yet  so  roguish,  a  look  so  full  of  life's  joy, 
its  health  and  its  beauty.  No  one  could  go  near  him 
without  wishing  to  share  the  vitality  that  radiated 
from  both  body  and  mind. 

I  asked  him  to  tell  me  his  name,  a  favor  I  asked 
of  no  one  else.  I  was  well  aware  of  the  solecism  I 
was  committing,  nor  was  he  less  so;  but  he  appeared 
to  be  flattered  by  my  request.  He  flushed  percepti- 
bly, slurred  over  his  surname  so  that  I  could  make 
little  of  it,  and  instead  of  his  Christian  name,  gave 
me  its  diminutive,  Jimmy.  After  which,  as  they  kept 
pointing  me  out  to  all  the  members  who  came  to 
bathe  as  "the  man  who  dives  with  his  watch  on,"  as 
they  kept  asking  me,  "Is  it  going?"  and  as  this  kind 
of  celebrity  did  not  please  me,  I  dressed  hastily  and 
took  flight. 

But  next  day,  the  weather  still  being  hot,  I  re- 
turned at  the  same  time,  and  again  met  Jimmy,  who 
asked  me  the  latest  news  of  the  watch,  and  would 
have  gone  on  ragging  me  about  it  till  doomsday  if 
I  had  not  been  leaving  on  the  fourteenth  for  Paris. 
We  had  become  so  friendly  that  I  begged  him  to 
give  me  his  card ;  I  could  not  give  him  mine,  not  hav- 
ing one  with  me,  but  I  told  him  that  my  address  was 
to  be  found  in  Who's  Who.  So  it  is  that  lasting 


144  THE  WRIST-WATCH 

friendships  are  made.  Ours  lay  dormant  for  a 
whole  year.  I  returned  to  London  in  June,  1914, 
and  lost  no  time  in  visiting  the  club.  There  I  at  once 
met  Jimmy,  who  greeted  me  as  if  we  had  parted  the 
day  before;  but  instead  of  saying  "How  are  you 
getting  on?"  he  said,  "Does  it  go  well?1' 

I  complained  of  his  not  having  written  to  me.  He 
replied  with  true  English  candor,  charming  in  its 
bluntness : 

"I  couldn't  write  in  French — I  can't  even  speak 
it;  you,  on  the  other  hand,  speak  English  so  badly 
that  you  would  probably  not  have  been  able  to 
read  it." 

As  a  proof  that  his  memory  had  not  failed  him 
nor  his  feelings  changed,  he  invited  me,  with  some 
others  of  his  acquaintance,  to  a  dinner  which  he 
laughingly  declared  should  take  place  annually,  and 
be  christened:  "The  Watch  Dinner."  I  objected 
that  I  should  be  at  Oxford  on  the  date  fixed. 

"All  right!"  he  said.  "The  dinner  shall  be  at 
Oxford." 

The  dinner  accordingly  took  place  at  Oxford  at 
the  Mitre  Hotel.  We  were  six.  We  dined  in  a 
simple  way,  and  drank  nothing  but  cider-cup,  but 
Jimmy  indulged  himself  a  little,  laughed  and  talked 
excitedly,  and  when  he  emerged  into  the  High  Street, 
he  was  quite  drunk.  He  cried  out  all  of  a  sudden : 

"Where  is  Magdalen  Tower?  I  can't  see  it. 
They  have  taken  it  away !" 

And  he  burst  into  tears.  I  pointed  out  to  him  that 
the  High  Street  bears  sharply  to  the  right,  and  that 
no  one  could  see  the  tower  from  where  we  were. 
He  declared  that  he  could  not  sleep  until  he  had 


THE  WRIST-WATCH  145 

convinced  himself  that  they  had  not  stolen  it;  that 
he  must  see  it  with  his  own  eyes — that  beautiful 
tower  with  its  eight  turrets.  We  led  him  to  the  end 
of  the  street,  and  then  brought  him  back  to  the 
hotel.  The  next  day,  on  our  return  to  London,  we 
heard  of  the  assassination  of  Francis  Ferdinand. 
The  war  broke  out.  I  heard  nothing  of  Jimmy  for 
five  years. 

I  had  no  doubt  that  he  had  been  killed.  I  was 
truly  grieved,  and  when  I  returned  to  London  for 
the  first  time  after  those  five  years,  in  July,  1919, 
I  often  thought  of  him  with  a  heavy  heart.  I  even 
felt  that  I  could  not  go  to  the  club;  but  at  last  I 
made  up  my  mind  to  do  so.  I  found  there  an  en- 
tirely different  set;  many  officers,  and  some  of  them 
terribly  maimed,  which  made  a  shocking  impression 
on  me.  What  made  their  condition  more  touching 
and  pitiable  was  the  way  in  which  they  bore  their 
afflictions.  They  did  not  appear  to  recognize  or 
acknowledge  them.  In  spite  of  all  they  might  think 
or  feel,  they  insisted  on  being  "like  everybody  else." 
I  noticed  particularly  a  young  man  whose  left  leg 
had  been  amputated  below  the  knee:  I  saw  him  go- 
stumping  along  leaning  on  the  shoulder  of  a  small 
boy  till  he  came  to  the  edge  of  the  swimming-bath 
where  he  took  a  header  and  swam  about  almost  as 
if  he  had  the  use  of  his  four  limbs.  When  he  came 
out,  I  found  that  it  was  my  Jimmy. 

It  seems  an  extraordinary  thing  to  say,  but  delight 
at  meeting  each  other  after  so  many  years  and  such 
miserable  happenings  was  not  our  first  emotion.  Our 
feelings  trembled  in  the  balance.  I  read  clearly  in 
his  eyes  that  he  would  have  preferred  not  to  see  me; 


146  THE  WRIST-WATCH 

that  for  some  inscrutable  reason  he  felt  shame  and 
humiliation  at  the  change  that  had  taken  place  in 
him.  It  was,  however,  with  a  semblance  of  his  old 
gaiety  that  he  asked: 

"How's  the  watch?" 

He  reminded  me  that,  as  it  happened,  next  day 
was  the  anniversary  of  our  dinner,  the  "Watch  Din- 
ner" that  was  to  have  been  an  annual  one,  and  we 
decided  to  go  to  Oxford  together. 

Next  day  we  went  to  Oxford,  only  we  were  alone 
this  time,  and  Jimmy  did  not  get  drunk.  He  wished 
to  stay  overnight,  saying  he  particularly  wished  to 
go  out  on  the  Char.  Not  more  than  two  minutes 
after  we  had  left  the  landing-place,  a  sudden  jerk 
of  the  punt,  and  by  no  means  a  violent  one,  pitched 
Jimmy  into  the  river.  He  never  rose,  and  I  did  not 
recover  his  body,  his  poor  crippled  body,  until  two 
hours  afterwards. 

How  came  he  to  be  drowned;  he  who,  forty-eight 
hours  earlier,  was  swimming  with  apparent  ease  ? 

It  is  my  conviction  that  in  spite  of  his  attempt  to 
appear  normal,  he  had  lost  his  love  of  life,  that  his 
meeting  with  me  had  too  vividly  recalled  the  old 
days,  and  that  his  death  was  voluntary.  For  I  can- 
not make  myself  believe  that  only  my  imagination  is 
in  play  when  I  recall  that  he  looked  insistently  at  his 
wrist-watch  just  before  the  "accident,"  and  that  I 
heard  him  murmur: 

"Will  it  stop?" 


CHARLES-HENRY  HIRSCH 


CHARLES-HENRY  HIRSCH  was  born  and  educated  in  Paris.  His 
dramatic  pieces  have  been  played  at  the  Odeon  and  the  Grand 
Guignol;  he  is  a  regular  contributor  to  most  of  the  leading  pa- 
pers and  magazines;  and  since  1894  he  has  published  several 
volumes  of  verse  and  several  collections  of  short  stories.  The 
accompanying  conte  comes  from  a  volume  called  Des  Hommes, 
des  Femmes  et  des  Betes. 


XV 
ISAAC  LEVITSKI 


THRICE,  under  brandished  whip  of  Cossack  or 
clenched  fist  of  policeman,  hands  covering  head 
to  protect  himself  from  their  blows,  had  Isaac  Levit- 
ski  to  clear  out  of  the  railway  terminus  at  Warsaw. 
For  a  fourth  time  he  made  his  appearance  there, 
trusting  in  God,  whose  laws  he  obeyed,  to  instigate 
some  passenger,  touched  by  the  sight  of  his  wretch- 
edness, to  give  him  his  bag  to  carry,  and  bestow  a 
trifle  In  return. 

With  the  utmost  caution  he  slunk  into  a  dim  recess 
from  which  he  looked  out  for  a  job,  shrinking  within 
himself,  as  if  it  were  possible  to  actually  diminish 
his  physical  proportions.  He  closed  his  eyes  to  shut 
out  the  fear  of  his  surroundings.  Under  their  lids 
he  beheld  the  Temple  of  Jerusalem  in  its  first  blaze 
of  gold,  marble  and  porphyry,  as  it  broke  upon  the 
astonished  view  of  his  forefathers  in  the  days  of 
Solomon,  the  just  and  glorious  King.  This  recurring 
vision  heartened  him  into  forgetfulness  of  the  spit- 
ting with  which  the  police  had  defiled  his  beard. 

Threading  the  times  and  spaces  of  earth,  his  imag- 
ination turned  from  that  mysterious  East  which  had 
grown  gray  since  the  dispersion  of  Israel  dissipated 

149 


I5o  ISAAC  LEVITSKI 

its  resplendence,  to  Paris,  where  Jacob,  the  eldest  of 
his  sons,  was  studying  medicine. 

Any  one  observing  him  then  might  have  envied 
the  happiness  of  the  hapless  creature  and  the  placid 
smile  that  brightened  his  face.  With  a  feverish  im- 
pulse he  fingered  the  five  locks  of  hair  that  fell  over 
his  shoulders,  and  the  two  parts  into  which  his  beard 
was  cloven.  In  this  action  the  reality  of  the  number 
seven  cheered  his  soul;  for  it  is  that  of  the  branches 
of  the  ritual  candlestick,  and  brings  prosperity;  being 
the  number  favored  by  the  Most  High  because,  since 
the  Creation,  it  denotes  the  return  of  the  Sabbath. 

"Jew,  will  nothing  but  killing  you  make  you  hook 
it?" 

He  rubbed  his  arm  before  turning  his  eyes  upon, 
a  brutal  Cossack  who  had  struck  it  with  his  nagaika, 
and  smiled,  for  he  could  find  a  ready  answer : 

"If  you  killed  me  I  should  be  even  less  able  to 
go  where  you  would  have  me  go." 

The  soldier  had  the  purple,  bloated  face  of  a 
hardened  drinker.  His  breath  reeked  with  alcohol. 

"Sheep-tick,  you  understand  me!"  he  growled. 

Levitski  hardly  moved.  His  knees  stuck  out  be- 
neath his  long  black  coat,  greenish  with  wear, 
patched  in  a  hundred  places  and  foul  with  stains, 
many  of  them  stiffened  and  encrusted.  He  rucked 
it  up  along  all  its  length  with  fingers  nimble  as  the 
legs  of  a  hunted  insect  until  they  stopped  suddenly 
and  tightened.  For  by  this  manoeuver  he  had  got  at 
a  leathern  pouch  which  hung  from  his  girdle.  In 
an  instant  the  folds  had  fallen  back,  and  he  was  offer- 
ing a  copper  coin  to  the  Cossack  with  a  slight  and 
very  humble  motion  of  the  hand. 


ISAAC  LEVITSKI  151 

"Filthy  Jew!"  muttered  the  man  in  uniform. 

Not  without  threatening  with  his  whip,  in  token 
of  his  authority  as  a  representative  of  the  Tsar,  did 
he  take  himself  off  haughtily  and  sullenly,  pocketing 
Isaac's  peace-offering.  And  the  latter  fingered  once 
more  the  seven  wisps  of  hair  to  bring  luck  to  his 
enterprises. 

Luck  favored  them.  No  one  interfered  with  him 
again  before  the  arrival  of  the  train.  Carrying  the 
portmanteau  and  wraps  of  a  well-to-do  passenger, 
Levitski  praised  the  Almighty  with  all  his  heart  for 
having  decreed,  in  His  providential  wisdom,  that  this 
stranger  should  speak  the  dialect  of  the  Jews  of 
Warsaw  volubly  and  boast  before  a  porter  of  being 
a  banker  at  Rome  and  a  count  by  special  grace  of  the 
Holy  See. 

"Blessed  Virgin,  what  an  age  it  is  since  I  have 
been  here!"  he  sighed. 

As  he  looked  up  at  him,  Levitski  nearly  ran  into 
the  Cossack  whose  forbearance  he  had  lately  pur- 
chased. This  drew  down  on  him  curses  which  did 
not  in  the  least  prevent  him  from  imagining  that 
some  day  Jacob,  his  first-born,  would  perhaps  arrive 
in  a  saloon  carriage,  with  filial  and  fraternal  greet- 
ings worthy  of  a  son  of  the  tribe  dedicated  to  priest- 
hood. 

"Rough  on  rats,  the  Cossacks,  eh?"  said  the  owner 
of  the  portmanteau  and  wraps. 

Isaac  only  answered  by  raising  his  eyebrows  be- 
cause of  a  policeman  who  might  have  overheard  him; 
and  his  meek  look  expressed  the  entire  resignation 
of  a  soul  submissive  to  the  inflexible  and  avenging 
will  of  the  Eternal. 


152  ISAAC  LEVITSKI 

"Put  them  there,"  ordered  the  financier. 

Having  deposited  the  articles  in  the  Majestic 
Hotel  omnibus,  Levitski  wiped  his  perspiring  hands 
on  his  coat  at  the  hips  and,  by  a  knowing  smile  that 
accompanied  the  hint  of  his  panting  breath,  showed 
the  confidence  with  which  his  apostate  co-religionist 
had  inspired  him. 

"How  many  children  have  you?" 

"Twelve  ...  as  there  will  always  be  twelve 
tribes !" 

"Well,  I'll  give  you  twelve  roubles  .  .  ." 

On  the  mention  of  this  unhoped-for  sum,  Isaac 
flushed  with  pleasure  and  with  shame — with  shame 
at  a  thought  which  he  hesitated  to  put  into  words 
but  which  yet  found  expression: 

"I  have  also  my  mother  with  me  ...  She  is 
paralyzed  .  .  .  With  Hagar,  my  wife,  that  makes 
fifteen  mouths  to  feed  .  .  .  fourteen,  I  should  say, 
as  Jacob  .  .  .  my  eldest  ...  is  studying  in  France 

5J 

"Well,  take  that  then!  .  .  ." 

Having  counted  twenty  roubles,  he  was  about  to 
put  forth  his  thanks  and  blessings,  but  the  omnibus 
bore  away  his  benefactor.  In  the  distance,  that  indi- 
vidual made  signs  of  farewell  to  Levitski,  who  re- 
turned them  with  profound  obeisances  of  his  gaunt 
body. 

"Be  off,  vanish,  hog's  dunghill!" 

The  Cossack  would  have  lashed  Isaac's  back  had 
not  the  Jew  foreseen  the  barbarity,  and,  with  a  side- 
long bound,  measured  the  length  of  ground  which 
must  ever  separate  a  subject  of  the  Tsar  from  an 
agent  of  his  imperial  power.  It  was  once  again  the 


ISAAC  LEVITSKI  153 

ruffian  whom  he  had  mollified  with  his  modest  gratu- 
ity. He  clasped  his  hand  to  feel  there  the  identity 
of  the  coins,  and  escaped,  keeping  to  himself  a  shaft 
of  easily-conceived  irony  which  might  have  cost  him 
dear,  even  though  it  had  not  penetrated  the  thick 
skull  of  the  giant. 

At  the  age  of  forty,  when  one  has  never  been 
blessed  with  even  the  necessaries  of  life,  and  has 
toiled  bravely  from  infancy,  a  man  does  not  feel 
inclined  to  run  much.  Levitski  soon  had  to  walk. 
He  panted  with  fatigue,  and  his  breath  came  with 
difficulty.  But  from  his  whole  soul,  his  jet-black 
eyes,  his  fevered  lips,  his  frail  body,  came  the  free 
breath  of  thankfulness  to  the  living  God,  The  Al- 
mighty, for  His  goodness  to  him.  He  reckoned  that 
a  tithe  of  these  twenty  roubles  would  give  him  two 
for  the  Temple ;  that  he  would  be  able  to  spare  two 
for  Jacob's  requirements ;  that  he  could  buy  a  woolen 
scarf  for  his  mother,  and  another,  nearly  as  good,  for 
Hagar.  He  pondered  over  the  remainder  with  in- 
tense satisfaction,  invoking  a  divine  blessing  on  the 
generous  stranger  and  on  his  heirs  and  assigns  to  the 
third  generation. 

Aaron  Rubinski,  the  shoemaker,  hailed  him  from 
the  depths  of  his  large  stall,  as  from  a  grave,  in 
which  he  spent  three  quarters  of  each  day: 

"Hullo,  Isaac,  you  seem  very  pleased  with  your- 
self!" 

"That's  because  it's  such  lovely  weather,  Aaron." 

"I  am  as  true  a  Jew  as  you,  Isaac.  .  .  .  You  are 
pleased  ...  on  any  other  account?" 

"Maybe,  maybe,  Aaron.  .  .  .  Anyhow,  it's  not 
because  I'm  forty  years  old  .  .  ." 


154  ISAAC  LEVITSKI 

"Jacob  your  eldest  ...  is  he  the  occasion  of  this 
joyfulness?" 

"I  am  blessed  in  all  my  progeny,  Aaron,"  replied 
Isaac. 

And  distrusting  any  words,  the  best  of  which 
would  have  done  little  justice  to  his  sense  of  gratitude 
to  heaven,  he  took  leave  of  the  handicraftsman. 


The  house  where  he  lodged  was  at  hand.  By  day 
it  was  like  a  pigeon-house  by  reason  of  the  babel  of 
children's  voices.  At  night  when  the  little  mouths 
were  closed,  it  seemed  a  tragic  and  mysterious 
necropolis  owing  to  the  anxiety  of  their  parents  to 
let  them  enjoy  in  profound  silence  the  dreams  that 
enfranchised  them. 

The  aged  Rebecca,  the  paralyzed  grandmother, 
who  was  moreover  hard  of  hearing,  felt  the  approach 
of  her  son.  An  indefinable  look  of  sweetness  came 
into  her  eyes  as  her  daughter-in-law  watched  her. 
It  was  the  latter  who,  on  the  look-out,  first  heard 
her  husband's  step  on  the  stair.  Simple-hearted, 
handsome  yet  in  the  fading  charms  of  a  mother  of 
so  many  children,  she  clapped  her  hands,  and  her 
eyes  deepened  with  a  dutiful  tenderness : 

"Here's  father!"  she  cried. 

But  the  children  had  also  heard.  The  whole 
eleven  jumped  up,  leaving  what  they  were  about. 
They  ranged  themselves  along  the  walls,  the  six 
sons  on  the  right,  the  five  daughters  on  the  left,  each 
group  in  an  ordered  file  according  to  their  ages,  to 
await  their  father. 

There  were  some  with  crisp  black  curls;  there 


ISAAC  LEVITSKI  155 

were  red-headed  boys  and  girls.  One  only,  a  little 
girl,  was  fair,  the  ashy-gray  fairness  of  the  Poles; 
for  a  dark  mystery  enshrouds  the  problem  of  birth. 
Generally  speaking,  their  profiles  were  of  the  ovine 
type,  a  result  of  the  Hebrews  being  so  long  a  shep- 
herd people.  The  youngest  ones  fidgeted  involun- 
tarily, not  yet  understanding  the  majestic  nature  of 
the  ceremony.  The  youngest  of  all,  who  was  called 
Benjamin,  gazed  intently  at  a  spider  in  a  corner  of 
the  ceiling  above  his  pretty  little  head,  ill-poised 
upon  the  weary  little  shoulders  of  this  precocious 
philosopher — a  spider  in  the  center  of  her  web 
wherein  her  prey  was  entrapped.  And  he  built  up, 
in  view  of  that  drama,  the  vague  theories  which  he 
could  have  wept  at  not  being  able  to  expound  in 
words. 

"Benjamin!" 

At  the  feeble  call  of  his  grandmother  he  lowered 
his  head,  and  his  big,  black,  fawnlike  eyes  met  the 
worn-out  eyes  that  sought  his. 

Isaac  Levitski  opened  the  door  and  paused  on  the 
threshold;  then  he  closed  it  very  gently.  Then, 
taking  off  his  cap,  he  went  up  to  his  mother  and 
knelt  so  that  she  could  kiss  him  on  the  forehead 
almost  without  moving.  Then  he  kissed  the  fore- 
head of  his  wife,  Hagar,  who  had  approached  him 
in  the  manner  of  a  handmaid.  Then,  beginning  with 
the  boys,  he  gave  his  hands  to  his  children  to  kiss, 
and  he  kissed  them  on  the  lips  as  his  fatherly  heart 
enjoined  him  to  do.  He  lifted  Benjamin  in  his  arms, 
and  as  was  his  custom  every  night,  folding  him  to 
his  breast  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy,  pronounced  the  name 
of  Jacob,  his  first-born.  So,  from  the  grandmother 


156  ISAAC  LEVITSKI 

half  in  her  grave  to  the  frail  little  Benjamin,  there 
were  fourteen  to  commend,  from  the  depths  of  their 
fervent  souls,  to  the  Almighty  who  creates,  destroys, 
regulates  and  convulses  worlds,  the  fortunes  of  a 
young  Jew  who  had  gone  from  Poland  to  Paris  to 
study  medicine. 

Now,  dropping  into  lighter  vein,  Isaac  told  them 
of  his  good  luck.  Twenty  roubles !  Father  has 
brought  home  twenty  roubles!  The  little  ones  had 
gone  back  to  their  games  or  their  lessons.  The  older 
girls  placed  fourteen  wooden  bowls  on  the  bare  table. 
Not  one  of  them  now  remembered  that  there  was  a 
Tsar;  that  there  were  Cossacks  and  police.  They 
submitted  themselves  wholly  to  the  law  as  laid  down 
and  administered  by  the  Head  of  the  Family.  Isaac 
Levitski  felt  pride  in  their  reverence  and  in  his  posi- 
tion of  authority.  Neither  blows,  nor  sarcasms,  nor 
spittings,  undergone  because  so  many  precious  lives 
depended  on  his  endurance  of  them,  could  subdue  his 
exultation  in  belonging  to  the  Chosen  People  before 
whom  the  Red  Sea  parted  its  waters  and  left  dry 
land  for  their  passage,  to  the  race  of  Judith  and  of 
the  Maccabees,  those  lions,  and  of  Judas  Maccabaeus, 
that  lion  of  lions. 

There  was  sudden  thunder,  and  Benjamin  dropped 
the  broken  top  with  which  he  was  playing,  and  put 
on  his  cap.  His  head  covered  that  he  might  be 
worthy  to  speak  with  the  Lord,  he  opened  the  win- 
dow; for  he  knew  that  the  Messiah  would  come  with 
the  rending  of  the  clouds. 

With  an  instinctive  gesture,  Isaac  touched  the  five 
locks  of  hair  and  the  two  locks  of  beard.  Until  the 


ISAAC  LEVITSKI  157 

storm  was  over  he  gazed  at  the  blue  trails  of  light- 
ning furrowing  the  darkened  void  of  space. 

And  sitting  down  to  table,  all  these  poor  people, 
after  prayer,  regaled  themselves  on  next  to  nothing. 


EDMOND  JALOUX  was  born  at  Marseilles  in  1878,  and  was  edu- 
cated and  lived  there  till  1903,  when  he  went  to  Paris.  He  made 
his  literary  debut  with  a  volume  of  poetry,  Une  Ame  d'Automite, 
which  appeared  in  1896,  and  this  has  been  followed  by  several 
novels  and  volumes  of  short  stories.  "The  Fugitive"  first  ap- 
peared as  one  of  the  daily  contes  in  Excelsior. 


XVI 
THE  FUGITIVE 

By  EDMOND  JALOUX 

FOR  the  last  hour  it  had  left  off  raining.    There 
was  a  dripping  from  the  leaves  of  the  great 
trees;   a  mist,   white,   wet   and   saturating,    rested 
heavily  on  the  dull  air.    The  gray  morning  saw  the 
heights  of  Buttes-Chaumont  deserted. 

A  couple  strolled  up  a  rising  path.  The  man  was 
a  certain  Francois  Chedigny;  one  of  the  world's 
passers-by,  one  of  its  loungers;  one  of  those  who  go 
from  love  to  love ;  always  sincere,  but  always  quickly 
detached. 

It  was  at  Nice,  at  an  hotel,  that  he  had  met  Dora 
Cleghorn.  Her  mother,  a  wealthy  American,  had 
married  a  second  time  at  New  Orleans,  and  Dora 
was  traveling  alone  through  Europe,  exploring  the 
picture  galleries  and  occasionally  painting  in  the 
extreme  school  of  impressionism. 

To  see  Dora  Cleghorn  was  not  easily  to  forget 
her:  slender,  lithe,  with  the  swing  of  a  swallow;  a 
touch  of  gold  in  her  pale  complexion,  a  hint  of 
danger  in  the  candid  gray  eyes;  an  air  of  distant 
dreaming. 

Throughout  their  walk  there  had  been  much  de- 
bate. 

161 


162  THE  FUGITIVE 

"It  amounts  to  this,"  he  said  despondingly,  "you 
will  not  believe  in  my  love." 

She  prodded  the  moist  sand  with  the  point  of  her 
umbrella. 

"I  cannot  believe  or  disbelieve,"  she  replied. 
"Twenty  men  have  sworn  to  me  what  you  have 
sworn.  Still,  I  must  confess  that  you  appear  to  be 
the  sincerest  of  them  alll" 

"Then  you  will  let  yourself  be  persuaded  into 
belief?" 

"Ah,  Frangois,  Francois,  you  go  too  fast!  I  must 
know  what  manner  of  man  you  are  first.  What  do  I 
know  of  you?  You  are  like  no  one  else.  You  please, 
you  charm  me — you  may  be  sure  of  that  or  I  should 
not  meet  you  as  I  do !  But  I  do  not  love  you." 

He  took  her  arm  with  a  masterful  touch;  she  did 
not  withdraw  it. 

"You  must  love  me,  Dora;  you  must  love  me 
because  I  do  in  truth  love  you,  because  my  love  is 
no  light  fancy,  but  has  the  somber  strength,  the  en- 
during force  of  a  great  passion." 

She  interrupted  him,  for  they  had  come  to  the 
park-entrance  where  a  car  was  waiting. 

"I  am  pressed  for  time  now,  Frangois.  You  shall 
speak  of  all  this  to-morrow  when  you  come  to  tea 
with  me  .  .  ." 

Dora  Cleghorn  lived  in  the  rue  Jacob,  in  an  old 
house  which  looked  out  on  a  garden  full  of  great 
trees.  On  the  lawn  all  overgrown  with  ivy,  were 
fragments  of  statuary  that  showed,  now  here,  now 
there,  the  appealing  torso  of  a  goddess,  the  bust  of 
an  emperor,  a  limb  of  a  huntress,  the  back  of  an 
Apollo.  Chedigny  was  shown  into  an  apartment 


THE  FUGITIVE  163 

which  might  be  taken  for  a  sitting-room,  a  drawing- 
room  or  a  study. 

Dora,  despising  conventionalities,  was  seated, 
Turkish-fashion,  on  a  low  divan.  She  clapped  her 
hands  when  her  lover  entered.  She  was  in  high 
spirits,  and  chattered  volubly — a  thousand  absurdi- 
ties. But  he  could  not  laugh:  he  was  too  much  in 
love;  he  was  suffering.  He  asked  the  same  ques- 
tions that  he  had  put  yesterday. 

"I  am  going  to  spend  a  fortnight  in  London," 
she  said.  "I  will  think  it  all  over.  Perhaps  my  an- 
swer will  be  'yes'  when  I  return.  I  must  take  time 
for  reflection.  You  upset  my  whole  life,  you  terrible 
Frenchman!  If  I  love  you,  if  I  marry  you,  what 
kind  of  man  will  you  prove  to  be?  I  am  horrified  at 
the  idea  of  a  master." 

He  swore  to  her  that  he  would  never  be  that. 
Next  day  when  he  went  to  the  station  to  see  her  off, 
he  carried  with  him  a  great  sheaf  of  iris.  There 
were  blooms  of  violet,  somber  velvet  splendors, 
blooms  of  blue  that  radiated  in  streaks  sharp 
as  swords,  blooms  of  black  and  white  that  smelt  of 
incense  and  extinguished  wax-lights.  When  she  saw 
these  flowers,  Dora  was  touched,  and  it  seemed  as 
if  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"You  really  are  a  delightful  person,"  she  said. 
The  engine  whistled;  doors  were  slammed;  passen- 
gers who  were  late  ran  along  the  platform;  others 
who  had  taken  their  seats  were  already  waving  hand- 
kerchiefs. 

"What  will  your  answer  be?"  murmured  Che- 
digny,  raising  himself  on  the  footboard. 

"I  don't  know!    Hope  .  .  ," 


164  THE  FUGITIVE 

"You  will  write  to  me  as  soon  as  you  get  back?" 

"Yes,  I  promise." 

She  held  out  her  hand,  a  little  white  hand,  slender 
and  delicate  as  that  of  a  child.  He  kissed  it — a  long, 
burning  kiss.  The  train  began  to  move  slowly,  then 
more  rapidly.  Chedigny  could  not  understand  the 
expression  in  those  eyes  with  the  hint  of  danger  in 
their  candor;  in  the  face  tinted  with  the  touch  of 
gold.  His  heart-strings  tightened — for  intuition  told 
him  that  she  would  never  return. 

Nor  was  the  instinct  unjustified.  The  capricious 
American  did  not  write.  She  had  given  him  her  ad- 
dress in  London.  His  letters  came  back  with  "Not 
known"  written  across  them. 

Then  Francois  Chedigny  suffered  agonies;  he  suf- 
fered cruelly  in  his  love,  but  still  more  cruelly  in  his 
pride.  For  a  long  time  he  clung  to  hope ;  but  at  last 
he  realized  that  all  was  over. 

He  forgot,  as  most  men  do ;  and  as  most  men  do, 
he  married.  But  the  wound  was  never  healed. 

After  the  lapse  of  eight  years  he  received  a  little 
note.  Dora  Cleghorn  was  in  Paris,  and  asked  him 
to  come  and  see  her.  With  a  violent  exclamation  he 
swore  he  would  never  again  set  eyes  on  the  woman 
who  had  so  shamelessly  fooled  him.  But  the  next 
day  he  presented  himself  at  the  old  house  in  the 
rue  Jacob. 

Once  more  he  saw  the  garden,  all  in  leaf  and 
flower,  and  the  ruined  statues,  and  once  again  he 
was  in  the  boudoir  with  its  silken  Chinese  hangings. 
On  the  table  were  the  same  dwarfed  cedars;  every- 
where the  Japanese  vases  in  various  shades  of  green 
displayed  their  graceful  or  grotesque  forms;  but 


THE  FUGITIVE  165 

there  was  dust  over  all — a  certain  atmosphere  of 
neglect. 

A  figure  raised  itself  from  the  divan :  not  the  fas- 
cinating Dora  Cleghorn,  but  her  shadow.  Pallid, 
all  the  gold  gone  from  her  skin,  the  hair  streaked 
with  white,  and  her  voice  was  harsh,  broken,  irrec- 
ognizable. 

"My  old  friend,  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you  1" 

And  she  held  out  a  hand  so  thin  that  the  rings 
were  loose  upon  it. 

"Why  did  you  leave  me  like  that?"  he  said,  before 
even  seating  himself. 

"Because  I  loved  you,  Frangois,"  she  answered, 
sinking  down  again  on  the  divan.  "I  can  open  my 
heart  to  you  now :  I  loved  you.  That  is  why  I  was 
afraid.  Never,  never,  have  I  been  able  to  realize 
any  dream  of  mine,  and  I  preferred  to  keep  my  ideal 
of  you,  to  live  in  thoughts  of  you  at  a  distance.  Per- 
haps you  do  not  understand  this  .  .  .  it  is  a  sort  of 
malady  of  the  mind  ...  I  have  always  believed 
that  love  ought  to  burn  like  a  magic  fire  in  the  heart, 
throwing  a  lasting  glow  of  enchantment  on  the  lov- 
ers, and  my  mother's  experience  and  that  of  almost 
all  my  friends  has  taught  me  that  it  rarely  is  like 
that.  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  imagine  living 
everyday  life  with  you,  our  companionship  disturbed 
by  the  sordid  details  of  housekeeping,  our  love 
breathed  on  and  tarnished  by  the  thousand  little  vul- 
garities and  accidents  of  daily  happenings.  And  so  I 
went  away  ...  I  loved  some  one  else  before  I  loved 
you,  and  wanted  to  marry  him,  but  when  the  time 
came,  I  couldn't  carry  it  through.  I  know  now  that 
I  never  really  loved  him,  and  I  have  never  seen  him 


166  THE  FUGITIVE 

since.  It  is  different  with  you,  Francois.  I  have 
wandered  from  country  to  country,  but  thoughts  of 
you  have  never  left  me;  my  heart  has  been  full  of 
you,  and  your  love  embodied  for  me  all  the  beauty 
of  life.  And  I  have  found  a  certain  amount  of  real 
happiness  in  remaining  faithful  to  a  love  that  has 
never  suffered  disillusion  .  .  .  And  you,  what  have 
you  been  doing?" 

He  told  her  of  his  marriage. 

She  sighed. 

"You  are  very  fortunate  to  have  been  able  to  take 
it  like  that.  I  am  very  glad.  Idealists  always  have 
the  worst  of  it;  are  seldom  really  happy.  ...  I 
wanted  to  see  you  before  I  set  out  for  Switzerland. 
.  .  .  Yes,  I  am  going  to  Davos.  A  year  ago  in 
London  I  had  pneumonia;  I  never  got  over  it,  and  it 
developed  into  tuberculosis.  I  believe  this  will  be 
my  last  flight.  But  who  knows?  Perhaps  I  shall 
live  to  love  you  for  a  long  time  yet  .  .  .  Look, 
open  that  box  .  .  ." 

He  obeyed,  and  saw  a  heap  of  dried  flowers. 

"It  is  the  blooms  of  iris  you  gave  me  at  the  sta- 
tion. I  have  taken  it  with  me  everywhere.  But  to- 
day I  am  going  to  give  it  back  to  you  .  .  ." 


When  he  said  good-by  to  her  for  the  last  time, 
he  carried  the  box  away  under  his  arm  as  one  carries 
the  coffin  of  an  infant.  He  went  back  to  his  home. 
He  did  not  want  his  wife  to  see  the  poor  withered 
mass,  and  he  could  not  throw  it  away.  A  garden 
surrounded  the  house.  He  took  a  spade  from  the 


THE  FUGITIVE  167 

tool-shed  and  dug  a  hole  under  a  big  tree,  and  there 
he  placed  the  box.  As  he  covered  it  with  earth,  he 
felt  as  if  he  were  burying  a  dead  body — the  corpse 
of  his  love. 


MAURICE  LEVEL 


MAURICE  LEVEL,  son  of  an  Alsatian  father,  who  was  an  officer 
in  the  French  Army,  and  a  mother  from  Lorraine,  spent  much  of 
his  youth  in  Algiers,  but  came  to  anchor  in  Paris  to  study  medi- 
cine. His  first  conte  was  written  during  a  night-watch  while  he 
was  house-surgeon  at  the  Lariboisiere  Hospital;  it  was  accepted 
at  once  for  Le  Journal,  and  when  a  few  weeks  later  a  second 
story  was  dramatized  for  the  Grand  Guignol  Theatre,  he  gave 
up  medicine  for  literature.  He  has  written  over  seven  hundred 
contes,  some  of  which  have  been  dramatized,  and  he  is  also  the 
author  of  several  novels. 


XVII 
THE  DEBT-COLLECTOR 

By  MAURICE  LEVEL 

RAVENOT,  debt-collector  to  the  same  bank  for 
ten  years,  was  a  model  employee.  Never  had 
there  been  the  least  cause  to  find  fault  with  him. 
Never  had  the  slightest  error  been  detected  in  his 
books. 

Living  alone,  carefully  avoiding  new  acquaint- 
ances, keeping  out  of  cafes  and  without  love-affairs, 
he  seemed  happy,  quite  content  with  his  lot.  If  it 
were  sometimes  said  in  his  hearing:  "It  must  be  a 
temptation  to  handle  such  large  sums!"  he  would 
quietly  reply:  "Why?  Money  that  doesn't  belong 
to  you  is  not  money." 

In  the  locality  in  which  he  lived  he  was  looked 
upon  as  a  paragon,  his  advice  sought  after  and  taken. 

On  the  evening  of  one  collecting-day  he  did  not 
return  to  his  home.  The  idea  of  dishonesty  never 
even  suggested  itself  to  those  who  knew  him.  Pos- 
sibly a  crime  had  been  committed.  The  police  traced 
his  movements  during  the  day.  He  had  presented 
his  bills  punctually,  and  had  collected  his  last  sum 
near  the  Montrouge  Gate  about  seven  o'clock,  when 
he  had  over  two  hundred  thousand  francs  in  his  pos- 
session. Further  than  that  all  trace  of  him  was  lost. 
They  scoured  the  waste  ground  that  lies  near  the 

171 


172  THE  DEBT-COLLECTOR 

fortifications;  the  hovels  that  are  found  here  and 
there  in  the  military  zone  were  ransacked:  all  with 
no  result.  As  a  matter  of  form  they  telegraphed  in 
every  direction,  to  every  frontier  station.  But  the 
directors  of  the  bank,  as  well  as  the  police,  had  little 
doubt  that  he  had  been  laid  in  wait  for,  robbed,  and 
thrown  into  the  river.  Basing  their  deductions  on 
certain  clues,  they  were  able  to  state  almost  posi- 
tively that  the  coup  had  been  planned  for  some  time 
by  professional  thieves. 

Only  one  man  in  Paris  shrugged  his  shoulders 
when  he  read  about  it  in  the  papers:  that  man  was 
Ravenot. 

Just  at  the  time  when  the  keenest  sleuth-hounds 
of  the  police  were  losing  his  scent,  he  had  reached 
the  Seine  by  the  Boulevards  Exterieurs.  He  had 
dressed  himself  under  the  arch  of  a  bridge  in  some 
everyday  clothes  he  had  left  there  the  night  before, 
had  put  the  two  hundred  thousand  francs  in  his 
pocket,  and,  making  a  bundle  of  his  uniform  and 
satchel,  he  had  weighted  it  with  a  large  stone  and 
dropped  it  into  the  river;  then,  unperturbed,  he  had 
returned  to  Paris.  He  slept  at  an  hotel,  and  slept 
well.  In  a  few  hours  he  had  become  a  consummate 
thief. 

Profiting  by  his  start,  he  might  have  taken  a  train 
across  the  frontier.  He  was  too  wise  to  suppose 
that  a  few  hundred  kilometers  would  put  him  beyond 
the  reach  of  the  gendarmes,  and  he  had  no  illusions 
as  to  the  fate  that  awaited  him.  He  would  most 
assuredly  be  arrested.  Besides,  his  plan  was  a  very 
different  one. 

When  daylight  came,  he  enclosed  the  two  hundred 


THE  DEBT-COLLECTOR  173 

thousand  francs  in  an  envelope,  sealed  it  with  five 
seals,  and  went  to  a  lawyer. 

"Monsieur,"  said  he,  "this  is  why  I  have  come 
to  you.  In  this  envelope  I  have  some  securities, 
papers  that  I  want  to  leave  in  safety.  I  am  going 
for  a  long  journey,  and  I  don't  know  when  I  shall 
return.  I  should  like  to  leave  this  packet  with  you. 
I  suppose  you  have  no  objection  to  my  doing  so?" 

"None  whatever.    I'll  give  you  a  receipt." 

He  assented,  then  began  to  think.  A  receipt? 
Where  could  he  put  it?  To  whom  entrust  it?  If 
he  kept  it  on  his  person,  he  would  certainly  lose  his 
deposit.  He  hesitated,  not  having  foreseen  this  com- 
plication. Then  he  said  easily: 

"I  am  alone  in  the  world,  without  relations  and 
friends.  The  journey  I  intend  making  is  not  with- 
out danger.  I  should  run  the  risk  of  losing  the 
receipt,  or  it  might  be  destroyed.  Would  it  not  be 
possible  for  you  to  take  possession  of  the  packet  and 
place  it  in  safety  among  your  documents,  and  when 
I  return,  I  should  merely  <have  to  tell  you,  or  your 
successor,  my  name?" 

"But  if  I  do  that  .  .  ." 

"State  on  the  receipt  that  it  can  only  be  claimed 
in  this  way.  At  any  rate,  if  there  is  any  risk,  it  is 
mine." 

"Agreed!    What  is  your  name?" 

He  replied  without  hesitation : 

"Duverger,  Henri  Duverger." 

When  he  got  back  to  the  street,  he  breathed  a 
sigh  of  relief.  The  first  part  of  his  program  was 
over.  They  could  clap  the  handcuffs  on  him  now: 
the  substance  of  his  theft  was  beyond  reach. 


174  THE  DEBT-COLLECTOR 

He  had  worked  things  out  with  cold  deliberation 
on  these  lines:  on  the  expiration  of  his  sentence  he 
would  claim  the  deposit.  No  one  would  be  able  to 
dispute  his  right  to  it.  Four  or  five  unpleasant  years 
to  be  gone  through,  and  he  would  be  a  rich  man! 
It  was  preferable  to  spending  his  life  trudging  from 
door  to  door  collecting  debts.  He  would  go  to  live 
in  the  country.  To  every  one  he  would  be  "Monsieur 
Duverger."  He  would  grow  old  in  peace  and  con- 
tentment, known  as  an  honest,  charitable  man — -for 
he  would  spend  some  of  the  money  on  others. 

He  waited  twenty-four  hours  longer  to  make  sure 
the  numbers  of  the  notes  were  not  known,  and  reas- 
sured on  this  point,  he  gave  himself  up,  a  cigarette 
between  his  lips. 

Another  man  in  his  place  would  have  invented 
some  story.  He  preferred  to  tell  the  truth,  to  admit 
the  theft.  Why  waste  time?  But  at  his  trial,  as 
when  he  was  first  charged,  it  was  impossible  to  drag 
from  him  a  word  about  what  he  had  done  with  the 
200,000  francs.  He  confined  himself  to  saying: 

"I  don't  'know.  I  fell  asleep  on  a  bench.  .  .  . 
In  my  turn  I  was  robbed." 

Thanks  to  his  irreproachable  past  he  was  con- 
demned to  only  five  years'  penal  servitude.  He 
heard  the  sentence  without  moving  a  muscle.  He 
was  thirty-five.  At  forty,  he  would  be  free  and 
rich.  He  considered  the  confinement  a  small,  neces- 
sary sacrifice. 

In  the  prison  where  he  served  his  sentence  he  was 
a  model  for  all  the  others,  just  as  he  had  been  a 
model  employee.  He  watched  the  slow  days  pass 


THE  DEBT-COLLECTOR  175 

without  impatience  or  anxiety,  concerned  only  about 
his  health. 

At  last  the  day  of  his  discharge  came.  They  gave 
him  back  his  little  stock  of  personal  effects,  and  he 
left  with  but  one  idea  in  his  mind,  that  of  getting 
to  the  lawyer.  As  he  walked  along,  he  imagined  the 
coming  scene. 

He  would  arrive.  He  would  be  ushered  into  the 
impressive  office.  Would  the  lawyer  recognize  him? 
He  would  look  in  the  glass:  decidedly  he  had  grown 
considerably  older,  and  no  doubt  his  face  bore  traces 
of  his  experience.  No,  certainly  the  lawyer  would 
not  recognize  him.  Ha !  Ha !  It  would  add  to  the 
humor  of  the  situation. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you,  Monsieur?" 

"I  have  come  for  a  deposit  I  made  here  five  years 
ago." 

"Which  deposit?    In  what  name?" 

"In  the  name  of  Monsieur  .  .  ." 

Ravenot  stopped,  suddenly  murmuring: 

"How  extraordinary.  I  can't  remember  the  name 
I  gave." 

He  racked  his  brains — a  blank !  He  sat  down  on 
a  bench,  and  feeling  that  he  was  growing  unnerved, 
reasoned  with  himself. 

"Come,  come!  Becalm!  Monsieur  .  .  .  Mon- 
sieur ...  It  began  with  .  .  .  which  letter?" 

For  an  hour  he  sat  lost  in  thought,  straining  his 
memory,  groping  after  something  that  might  sug- 
gest a  clue.  A  waste  of  time.  The  name  danced  in 
front  of  him,  round  about  him:  he  saw  the  letters 
jump,  the  syllables  vanish.  Every  second  he  felt 
that  he  had  it;  that  it  was  before  his  eyes,  on  his 


176  THE  DEBT-COLLECTOR 

lips.  No !  At  first  this  only  worried  him :  then  it 
became  a  sharp  irritation  that  cut  into  him  with  a 
pain  that  was  almost  physical.  Hot  waves  ran  up 
and  down  his  back.  His  muscles  contracted:  he 
found  it  impossible  to  sit  still.  His  hands  began  to 
twitch.  He  bit  his  dry  lips.  He  was  divided  between 
an  impulse  to  weep  and  one  to  fight.  But  the  more 
he  focused  his  attention,  the  further  the  name 
seemed  to  recede.  He  struck  the  ground  with  his 
foot,  rose,  and  said  aloud : 

"What's  the  good  of  worrying?  It  only  makes 
things  worse.  If  I  leave  off  thinking  about  it,  it 
will  come  of  itself." 

But  an  obsession  cannot  be  shaken  off  in  this  way. 
In  vain  he  turned  his  attention  to  the  faces  of  the 
passers-by,  stopped  at  the  shop-windows,  listened  to 
the  street  noises:  while  he  listened,  unhearing,  and 
looked,  unseeing,  the  great  question  persisted: 

"Monsieur?    Monsieur?" 

Night  came.  The  streets  were  deserted.  Worn 
out,  he  went  to  an  hotel,  asked  for  a  room,  and  flung 
himself  fully-dressed  on  the  bed.  For  hours  he  went 
on  racking  his  brain.  At  dawn  he  fell  asleep.  It  was 
broad  daylight  when  he  awoke.  He  stretched  him- 
self luxuriously,  his  mind  at  ease;  but  in  a  flash  the 
obsession  gripped  him  again: 

"Monsieur?     Monsieur?" 

A  new  sensation  began  to  dominate  his  anguish  of 
mind:  fear.  Fear  that  he  might  never  remember 
the  name,  never.  He  got  up,  went  out,  walked  for 
hours  at  random,  hanging  round  the  office  of  the 
lawyer.  For  the  second  time,  night  fell.  He  clutched 
his  head  in  his  hands  and  groaned: 


THE  DEBT-COLLECTOR  177 

"I  shall  go  mad." 

A  terrible  idea  had  now  taken  possession  of  his 
mind;  he  had  200,000  francs  in  notes,  200,000 
francs,  acquired  by  dishonesty,  of  course,  but  his, 
and  they  were  out  of  his  reach.  To  get  them  he  had 
undergone  five  years  in  prison  and  now  he  could  not 
touch  them.  The  notes  were  there  waiting  for  him, 
and  one  word,  a  mere  word  he  could  not  remember, 
stood,  an  insuperable  barrier,  between  him  and  them. 
He  beat  with  clenched  fists  on  his  head,  feeling  his 
reason  trembling  in  the  balance;  he  stumbled  against 
lamp-posts  with  the  sway  of  a  drunken  man,  tripped 
over  curbstones.  It  was  no  longer  an  obsession  or  a 
torment.  It  had  become  a  frenzy  of  his  whole  being, 
of  his  brain  and  of  his  flesh.  He  had  now  become 
convinced  that  he  would  never  remember.  His  imag- 
ination conjured  up  a  sardonic  laugh  that  rang  in 
his  ears ;  people  in  the  streets  seemed  to  point  at  him 
as  he  passed.  His  steps  quickened  into  a  run  that 
carried  him  straight  ahead,  knocking  up  against  the 
passers-by,  oblivious  of  the  traffic.  He  wished  to 
strike  back,  to  be  run  over,  crushed  out  of  existence. 

"Monsieur?    Monsieur?" 

At  his  feet  the  Seine  flowed  by,  a  muddy  green 
spangled  with  the  reflections  of  the  bright  stars. 
He  sobbed  out: 

"Monsieur  .   .  .  ?    Oh,  that  name !    That  name !" 

He  went  down  the  steps  that  led  to  the  river, 
and  lying  face  downwards,  worked  himself  towards 
it  to  cool  his  face  and  hands.  He  was  panting;  the 
water  drew  him  .  .  .  drew  his  hot  eyes  .  .  .  his 
ears  ...  his  whole  body.  He  felt  himself  slipping, 
and  unable  to  cling  to  the  steep  bank,  he  fell.  The 


178  THE  DEBT-COLLECTOR 

shock  of  the  cold  water  set  every  nerve  a-tingle.  He 
struggled  .  .  .  thrust  out  his  arms  .  .  .  flung  his 
head  up  ...  went  under  .  .  .  rose  to  the  surface 
again,  and  with  a  sudden  mighty  effort,  his  eyes 
staring  from  his  head,  he  yelled: 

"I've  got  it!  .  .  .  Help!  Duverger!  Du  .  .  ." 
The  quay  was  deserted.  The  water  rippled 
against  the  pillars  of  the  bridge:  the  echo  of  the 
somber  arch  repeated  the  name  in  the  silence.  .  .  . 
The  river  rose  and  fell  lazily:  lights  danced  on  it, 
white  and  red.  A  wave  a  little  stronger  than  the 
rest  licked  the  bank  near  the  mooring  rings.  .  .  .  All 
was  still  . 


ALFRED  MACHARD 


ALFRED  MACHARD,  born  at  Angers  in  1887,  -was  brought  up  in 
Paris,  and  was  only,  seventeen  when  his  first  novel,  Tnque, 
Nenesse,  Bout,  Miette  et  Cie,  appeared.  Various  novels  and  col- 
lections of  short  stories  have  followed,  all  dealing  with  the  lives 
of  the  gamins  of  Paris.  The  escapades  of  Bout-de-Bibi,  a  highly 
intelligent  urchin,  who  dominates  all  the  children  in  his  street, 
have  appeared  in  various  of  his  contes.  The  one  we  give  here 
is  taken  from  a  volume  called  Bout-de-Bibi. 


XVIII 

BOUT-DE-BIBI  .  .  .  "MAJOR  SIX  STRIPES" 
By  ALFRED  MAC  HARD 

IT  was  after  he  had  found  a  policeman's  battered 
•*•  helmet  in  a  dustbin  that  this  extraordinary  voca- 
tion came  to  Bout-de-Bibi.  Not  that  of  holding  np 
the  traffic  from  time  to  time,  nor  arresting  danger- 
ous thieves  in  suspect  hotels,  but  he  decided  to  be 
Medical  Inspector  for  the  boys  of  the  big  apartment- 
house  in  which  he  lived.  In  a  moment  of  youthful 
ambition  he  raised  himself  to  the  rank  of  "Major," 
and  thanks  to  the  generous  gift  of  three  pairs  of 
garters,  "  'lastic  color  of  the  walls,"  belonging  to 
Trinite  Thelemaque,  to  Marie  Pigonneau,  and  to 
Apollonie  Trimouille,  he  had  embellished  his  head- 
piece with  six  wondrous  stripes  which  assuredly  enti- 
tled him  to  the  highest  rank  in  the  "Regiment  of 
Majors." 

It  was  a  simple  game,  played  with  due  dignity. 

He  had  called  upon  his  inseparable  companion, 
Pancucule,  to  undertake  the  duties  of  the  indispensa- 
ble police  sergeant,  and  had  summoned  Bebert,  La- 
moul,  Biquot,  Barbagna  and  all  the  others — there 
were  twelve  of  them — to  strip  before  him  and  sub- 
mit to  an  examination  that  was  to  be  both  thorough 
and  impartial. 

Would  you  believe  it  ?    The  proposition  met  with 

181 


182  "MAJOR  SIX  STRIPES" 

the  warmest  welcome.  Since  the  war,  the  "big  ones" 
never  met  in  the  streets  without  saying  something 
like: 

"I'm  to  be  examined  on  the  i6th  at  .  .  ." 

"And  I  on  the  22nd  at  ...  at  eight  o'clock  in 
the  morning." 

The  cafes  and  bars  resounded  with  the  wonderful 
stories  of  those  who  had  just  come  from  the  Medical 
Boards,  full  of  colds  in  their  heads  and  the  pride  of 
having  rubbed  shoulders  with  illustrious  anatomies. 

"Yes,  old  chap,  I  went  in  between  a  prince  and 
Sacha  Guitry!" 

Why  shouldn't  they,  the  conscripts  of  1926,  offer 
themselves  the  virile  illusion  of  going  to  the  war? 

With  his  father  in  the  trenches,  and  his  mother 
at  the  workshop,  Bout-de-Bibi  was,  during  the  after- 
noon, sole  master  of  his  parents'  little  flat.  He  de- 
cided that  the  privates  should  undress  in  the  kitchen, 
and  then  pass  one  by  one  before  him  in  the  sitting- 
room. 

******* 

Bout-de-Bibi  had  seated  himself  on  the  dresser, 
and  with  a  war-like  air  was  drumming  a  military 
march  with  his  heels  on  the  cupboard  doors,  making 
the  plates  inside  rattle.  In  his  hand  was  a  pair  of 
big  field-glasses,  proud  spoil  brought  home  on  his 
last  leave  by  his  father  who  had  taken  them  from  an 
ober-leutnant. 

Bout-de-Bibi  thought  that  this  scientific  instrument 
would  help  him  to  discover  the  defects  in  the  young 
conscripts  about  to  appear  before  him,  and  ex- 
plained : 


"MAJOR  SIX  STRIPES"  183 

"It's  my  microscope." 

He  tried  it  first  on  the  police  sergeant,  and  gave 
a  cry  of  astonishment: 

"Gox!    What  an  eye  you've  got!" 

The  glass  made  everything  look  twelve  times  its 
real  size. 

The  Police  Sergeant  Pancucule  was  not  wearing 
those  boots,  those  great  boots,  "caves  of  the  winds," 
celebrated  by  poet-lovers  of  odoriferous  delights,  but 
he  had  put  on  his  feet  an  old  pair  of  hob-nailed  ones 
which  had  been  thrown  aside  as  worn  out  in  the  bot- 
tom of  a  cupboard  by  Bout-de-Bibi's  father. 

"Sergeant,  send  in  the  first!"  ordered  the  Major, 
focusing  his  glass  on  the  kitchen  door. 

Pancucule  opened  the  door,  and  bawled  through 
in  stentorian  tones: 

"First  one,  this  way!" 

Then,  as  Bebert  appeared,  dressed  in  nothing  but 
the  two  tufts  of  rose-colored  cotton-wool  that  pro- 
truded from  his  ears,  he  thrust  his  heel  out  sideways 
and  brought  his  foot  down  heavily  on  the  bare  big 
toe.  This  was  to  give  a  realistic  touch  to  the  pro- 
ceedings, for  Cochard  senior,  who  had  stripped  for 
inspection  seventeen  times  since  war  began,  declared 
on  oath  that  the  sergeant  had  secret  orders  to  crush 
your  toes.  Se  non  e  vero  .  .  . 

Major  Six  Stripes,  silent  and  immovable,  scruti- 
nized Bebert  through  the  glasses.  The  examination 
lasted  a  very  long  time.  Embarrassed  by  the  glare 
of  those  fiery,  expanding  eyes,  Bebert  suddenly  be- 
came intimidated,  and  assumed  the  bashful  pose  of 
Venus  Callypige. 


1 84  "MAJOR  SIX  STRIPES" 

But  the  voice  of  the  Major,  brusk  and  loud, 
ordered  him  to  stand  up  straight. 

The  gendarme  Pancucule,  na'if  and  good-hearted, 
gave  a  reminder: 

"The  conscript  is  cold  .  .  .  his  behind's  all  shak- 
ing." 

Bebert  was  growing  impatient : 

"Am  I  going  to  be  a  soldier,  or  am  I  not  going  to 
be  a  soldier?  Am  I  going  .  .  ." 

An  exclamation  from  the  major  cut  him  short. 

"Gox!  .  .  .  that  one's  covered  with  cress;  it's 
growing  all  over  him." 

And  straightway  Bebert  was  rejected. 

"Go  and  stand  there  in  the  corner  while  you  wait," 
commanded  the  Major. 

Crestfallen,  Bebert  did  as  he  was  told,  and  stood 
motionless,  his  nose  pressed  against  the  flowers  of 
the  wall-paper.  "Another,  Sergeant,  bring  an- 
other!" exulted  Bibi  in  high  glee.  This  time  La- 
moul,  lank  and  lean,  came  in. 

"Ha,  ha !  now  for  the  Eiffel  Tower,"  chaffed  the 
sergeant  irreverently. 

The  Major,  still  clasping  his  field-glasses,  chortled 
with  mirth : 

"Ha!  my  lad,  we  must  measure  this  one.  .  .  . 
Get  mother's  tape-measure  from  the  drawer  in  the 
sewing-machine  ...  no  hurry,  Pancucule,  I'm  count- 
ing his  cutlets." 

But  Pancucule  had  produced  the  tape. 

"Lift  up  your  arms,"  he  said  to  Lamoul.  "I've 
got  to  measure  you  .  .  .  keep  it  still  ...  75  cen- 
timeters. .  .  .  Put  your  head  down,  35  centimeters 


"MAJOR  SIX  STRIPES"  185 

.  .  .  stick  out  your  leg,  90  centimeters  .  .  .  now 
for  your  foot,  30  centimeters  .  .  ." 

"It's  not  enough  .  .  .  rejected!" 

Lamoul  burst  into  tears.  He  hiccoughed,  his 
shoulders  heaving,  inconsolable,  touching  in  his  de- 
spair : 

"But  it's  not  my  fault!  .  .  .  It's  not  my  fault!" 

But  the  Major  was  adamant. 

"I  tell  you  you're  rejected.  .  .  .  Go  and  stand 
beside  Bebert!" 

At  that  moment  tragic  cries  came  from  the  kitchen. 
The  noise  of  a  terrible  struggle  mingled  with  the 
crash  of  pots  and  pans  on  the  tiled  floor.  There  was 
a  charge  of  cavalry  in  the  copper,  while  a  violent 
poker  massacred  some  pots  of  jam. 

The  Major  started  violently. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"It's  Barbagna,"  answered  some  eager  voices. 

"What's  he  doing?" 

"We  can't  stop  him  .  .  .  he's  struggling  .  .  ." 

"What  for?" 

'  'Cos  the  concierge  keeps  looking  up,  and  he 
wants  to  put  his  back  out  of  the  window  at  her!" 

To  create  a  diversion  and  stop  the  accomplish- 
ment of  this  rash  project,  Bibi  announced: 

"It's  Barbagna's  turn!" 

As  the  door  opened,  it  revealed  a  topsy-turvy 
kitchen  full  of  all  kinds  of  debris.  An  urchin  was 
rubbing  his  head  under  the  tap.  It  was  Biquot,  and 
he  was  wailing: 

"They've  rubbed  the  soup  into  my  hair;  it's  all 
sticking  together." 


i8G  "MAJOR  SIX  STRIPES" 

Barbagna  did  not  enter  the  room;  he  bounded. 
He  was  scarlet,  foaming,  wet  with  perspiration,  like 
a  young  bull  hunted  from  his  dark  lair  into  the  sunny 
glare  of  the  arena. 

There  was  something  about  him  that  puzzled  the 
Sergeant.  He  thought: 

"He  looks  very  funny  without  his  clothes !" 

'And  the  Major,  looking  through  his  glass,  was 
also  astonished  by  the  appearance  of  this  new  con- 
script. 

"I  say,  Barbagna,"  he  cried,  "was  your  father  a 
coal-man?" 

This  mysterious  question  puzzled  Barbagna,  and 
he  calmed  down. 

"Why?" 

'  'Cos  .  .  .  Well,  you  can  see  for  yourself.  .  .  . 
Get  on  the  little  table  and  look  at  yourself  in  the 
glass  over  the  mantel-piece." 

Unfortunate  Barbagna !  A  few  moments  ago,  in 
the  course  of  the  struggle  in  which  the  others  had 
banded  against  him,  he  had  fallen  into  the  coal-box. 

It  was  impossible  to  have  a  soldier  of  this  color, 
and  he  was  ignominiously  rejected.  The  Major's 
harsh  voice  dismissed  him. 

Meanwhile,  however,  the  Major  himself  seemed 
to  be  becoming  highly  nervous.  His  mocking  eyes, 
generally  full  of  laughter,  had  become  somber,  their 
gaze  fixed  ahead.  He  mumbled  strange  words  in  a 
threatening  tone.  At  intervals,  there  were  loud,  long 
sighs,  and  something  like  a  groan  as  he  muttered : 

"Pots  of  jam  .  .  .  the  saucepan-handle  .  .  .  the 
soup  .  .  .  mother  .  .  .  hiding  .  .  ." 

Hastily  and  with  rage  he  rejected  all  the  other 


"MAJOR  SIX  STRIPES"  187 

conscripts,  sent  them  into  the  dining-room,  and  or- 
dered them  to  turn  to  the  wall.  Then  he  disappeared 
quickly  into  the  kitchen. 

The  unhappy  twelve,  dominated  by  his  authorita- 
tive voice,  waited,  they  hardly  knew  why,  under  the 
menace  of  the  Sergeant's  hob-nailed  boots,  the  order 
to  dress  themselves. 

And  Biquot,  his  hair  all  clotted  together,  kept  on 
wailing : 

"I  smell  of  leeks  .  .  .  it's  no  good  ...  I  smell 
of  leeks  ...  I  shall  always  smell  of  leeks  .  .  ." 

Suddenly,  a  voice — -such  a  voice  of  hate,  a  voice 
ringing  with  satisfied  revenge,  shouted  from  behind 
the  carefully-bolted  kitchen  door. 

"So  you've  broken  me  mother's  kitchen  to  bits, 
have  you?  .  .  .  All  right;  what  I've  done  is,  IVe 
thrown  your  things  out  of  the  window,  all  your  old 
shirts  and  your  shoes,  and  your  pants.  .  .  .  Out 
of  the  window!!  Into  the  street!  .  .  .  Ha!  Ha! 
And  Biquot's  flannel-waistcoat  fell  on  top  of  a  motor- 
bus!" 


PIERRE  MAC  ORLAN 


PIERRE  MAC  ORLAN,  born  at  Peronne  in  1883,  led  a  wandering 
life  till  he  was  twenty-seven  years  old,  when  ha  finally  settled 
down  to  literature.  "The  Philanthropist"  is  taken  from  a  volume 
of  short  stories,  entitled  Les  Bourreurs  de  Crane. 


XIX 

THE  PHILANTHROPIST 
By  PIERRE  MAC  ORLAN 

T>EFORE  settling  down  to  live  on  his  income  in  a 
•*-*  house  arranged  according  to  his  taste,  M.  de 
Tire-Moulure  sought  out  in  the  first  place  a  district 
where  the  inhabitants  were  poor  enough  to  enable 
him  to  give  a  free  rain  to  his  constitutional  benevo- 
lence. 

On  the  coast  of  Brittany  he  found  the  Land  of 
Promise  that  had  filled  his  dreams,  in  the  shape  of 
a  little  god-forsaken  town  bordering  on  a  heath 
about  as  fertile  as  the  shell  of  a  turtle. 

The  place  was  suitable  in  all  respects.  M.  de  Tire- 
Moulure  took  a  comfortable  house,  and  when  his 
furniture  had  been  moved  into  it,  he  began  to  make 
anxious  inquiries  concerning  the  distressful  popula- 
tion of  the  neighborhood. 

He  could  not  help  feeling  the  pleasurable  thrill 
of  a  pig  when  its  back  is  scratched  on  learning  that 
cadgers  and  mumpers  of  every  description,  of  every 
size,  sex  and  age,  infested  the  vicinity,  giving  this 
lost  corner  of  the  world  the  seductive  appearance  of 
being  peopled  by  the  crowd  that  frequents  places 
where  miraculous  cures  are  expected. 

The  best  traditions  of  the  race  of  beggars  were 
preserved  in  this  Breton  Thebaid  as  perfectly  as 

191 


192  THE  PHILANTHROPIST 

pickles  are  in  vinegar  or  flies  in  syrup.  No  inhuman 
notice  to  the  effect  that  begging  was  prohibited  inter- 
posed to  stop  the  development  of  their  curious  indus- 
try. The  master-beggars  of  bygone  days,  those  who, 
with  mouth  spluttering  foam  as  a  result  of  chewing 
ground-ivy,  imitated  the  convulsions  of  epilepsy,  or 
those  who  manufactured  hideous  tumors  by  fasten- 
ing to  their  legs  a  raw  ox-spleen  distended  with  blood 
and  milk — such  types  of  past  greatness  seemed  to 
live  again  amid  the  appropriate  surroundings  of  this 
abominable  locality.  M.  de  Tire-Moulure  rubbed 
his  hands ;  then  put  them  in  his  pocket,  and  distribu- 
ted largesse  right  and  left  to  the  extent  of  ten  cen- 
times or  four  sous. 

When  the  worthy  man  went  to  the  station  to 
catch  the  train  to  Nantes,  an  occasional  visit  there 
being  the  only  form  of  amusement  the  locality  af- 
forded, his  gratification  oozed  from  every  pore  as  he 
found  himself  escorted  by  all  the  blind,  crippled, 
deformed,  cretinous,  plague-stricken,  one-armed,  be- 
sotted, bone-lazy  wrecks  whom  his  philanthropy  at- 
tracted to  his  breeches-pockets  as  valerian  attracts 
cats. 

Among  these  picturesque  creatures,  M.  de  Tire- 
Moulure  had  taken  a  special  liking  to  a  certain  un- 
finished piece  of  humanity,  whose  screw-like  construc- 
tion suggested  a  dirty  wet  cloth  that  had  been  wrung 
out,  but  who  was  the  only  one  who  did  not  invoke 
God  and  the  Saints,  using  instead  something  of  a 
Parisian  patter  that  was  very  agreeable  to  the  smil- 
ing benefactor. 

If  Yahn,  the  blind  man,  hymned  his  miseries  in  the 
Breton  of  Quimper,  if  Yorick  psalmed  his  distresses 


THE  PHILANTHROPIST  193 

in  the  dialect  of  Vannes,  Bijou — that  was  the  name 
of  M.  de  Tire-Moulure's  protege — Bijou  brought 
into  this  fraternity  the  personal  note  of  his  natural 
tone  and  the  up-to-date  audacity  of  his  ballads. 

From  ten  to  twelve,  Bijou  perambulated  the  High 
Street  arrayed  in  a  deplorable  sailor  suit  of  canvas 
that  was  once  blue,  but  now  was  as  spotted  as  the 
patched  dress  of  harlequin.  His  cap  in  his  hand, 
his  legs  crooked  like  those  of  a  basset,  he  howled 
before  well-to-do  houses  the  song  for  which  he  had 
a  particular  affection,  and  which  always  proved  pro- 
ductive. 

With  treacherous  smile  and  words  of  guile 
He  led  astray  the  ga-a-mine, 
But  left  her  dead  on  truckle  bed, 
Devoured  by  fleas  and  f  a-a-mine. 

M.  de  Tire-Moulure  never  omitted  to  give  two 
sous  to  the  artiste,  who  after  a  "Thank  you,  gents 
and  ladies!"  renewed  his  vocal  efforts  under  a  sun 
strong  enough  to  melt  the  nails  in  boards. 

As  time  went  on,  a  friendship  grew  between  the 
man  of  leisure  and  the  busy  vocalist.  Every  day 
Bijou  came  and  held  out  his  hand  to  M.  de  Tire- 
Moulure,  and  the  latter,  feeling  in  his  pocket,  gave 
him  two  sous. 

This  event  was  as  certain  in  the  life  of  the  philan- 
thropist as  the  arrival  of  the  morning  paper,  an- 
nounced at  his  door  by  the  joyous  blast  of  the  horn 
of  Goazec,  the  newspaper-man. 

As  a  rule,  Bijou  exercised  his  talents  under  the 
balcony  of  the  Cafe  Mittonne  911  the  market-place. 


194  THE  PHILANTHROPIST 

Always  in  the  same  position,  his  back  against  a 
lime-tree,  he  awaited  complacently  the  arrival  of 
his  patron.  The  meeting  always  took  place  at  the 
same  hour  with  astronomical  exactitude.  Hand  held 
out  by  Bijou,  hand  seeking  pocket  by  gentleman. 

This  daily  action  became  such  a  habit  in  the  exist- 
ence of  these  two  beings  that  one  morning  M. 
de  Tire-Moulure,  finding  himself  at  Bijou's  tree, 
dropped  two  sous  into  space  unconscious  of  the  fact 
that  the  actual  Bijou  was  not  present. 

It  is  thus  with  many  habits;  they  seem  innocent 
enough  when  first  they  are  formed,  but  in  the  end 
they  may  have  a  fatal  importance.  And  so  it  hap- 
pened with  M.  de  Tire-Moulure. 

It  chanced  that  on  a  certain  day  the  good  man 
went  out  to  take  a  walk  on  the  banks  of  a  small,  but 
somewhat  deep  stream.  His  mind  elsewhere,  his 
eyes  unobservant,  the  philanthropist  unconsciously 
adopted  the  locomotive  method  of  the  crab,  and  this 
had  the  effect  of  precipitating  him  into  the  water, 
not,  however,  without  permitting  him  to  describe  a 
graceful  parabola. 

As  soon  as  the  protector  of  the  poor  found  him- 
self in  the  water,  and  could  therefore  have  no  doubt 
as  to  the  nature  of  his  misfortune,  he  began  to  raise 
cries  even  more  piercing  than  those  of  enthusiasm, 
doubtless  with  the  intention  of  letting  some  charitable 
soul  know  of  his  misfortune. 

The  charitable  soul  appeared  in  the  person  of 
Bijou,  who,  seeing  the  sad  plight  of  his  patron,  has- 
tened to  his  assistance,  hoping  by  saving  his  life  to 
discharge  the  debt  of  all  the  ten-centime  pieces  he 
had  received.  Happy,  in  short,  to  get  quit  of  his 


THE  PHILANTHROPIST  195 

many  obligations  at  so  cheap  a  rate,  he  ran  to  the 
bank,  stooped  down  and,  with  the  old  instinctive 
gesture,  held  out  his  hand  to  M.  de  Tire-Moulure. 

That  gesture  caused  the  death  of  the  philanthro- 
pist. Before  that  extended  hand,  broad  as  a  tennis- 
racquet,  which  appeared  to  be  offering  itself  in  the 
habitual  manner,  instinctively  he  put  his  hand  in 
his  pocket  and  placed  two  sous  in  the  animated  beg- 
ging-bowl presented  by  Bijou. 

It  was  his  last  effort.  Exhausted,  and  already 
three-quarters  full  of  water,  M.  de  Tire-Moulure 
went  down  to  explore  the  bottom  of  the  river,  leav- 
ing to  other  philanthropists,  equipped  with  poles  and 
grappling-irons,  the  delicate  business  of  getting  him 
out  after  a  search  of  twenty-four  hours. 


BINET-VALMER 


BINET-VALMER,  born  at  Geneva  in  1875,  comes  from  an  old 
Huguenot  family,  and  began  life  as  a  doctor.  He  soon  abandoned 
medicine  for  literature,  and  has  produced  many  books,  some  of 
which  are  collections  of  short  stories.  He  has  described  some  of 
his  war  experiences  in  Les  Memoires  d'un  Engagt  Volontaire, 
The  conte  we  give  here,  "When  She  was  Dead,"  is  taken  from  a 
volume  of  short  stories  called  Le  Mendiant  Magnifique. 


XX 

WHEN  SHE  WAS  DEAD  .  .  . 
By  BINET-VALMER 

AT  the  moment  when  she  turned  to  her  mirror 
with  the  look  of  a  woman  who,  her  toilette 
finished,  composes  her  face  into  the  expression  with 
which  she  meets  her  friends,  as  she  drew  round  her 
shoulders  and  bosom  the  rich  chinchilla  of  her  eve- 
ning cloak,  she  grew  pale,  her  eyes  opened  to  their 
widest  extent  as  if  they  had  suddenly  become  aware 
of  their  own  mystery — of  that  mystery  that  attracted 
us  all.  The  lips  grew  livid;  the  smile,  the  beautiful 
smile  that  was  both  humorous  and  tired,  changed  to 
a  tragic  contortion,  and  her  face — I  saw  it  an  hour 
later — became  like  that  of  the  mutilated  statue  in 
the  Museum  at  Athens,  the  head  of  a  Goddess  Con- 
templating Death. 

Without  uttering  a  sound,  Madame  de  Vrenel 
fell  full  length  on  the  white  bear-skin  rug  before  her 
dressing-table.  At  the  noise  of  the  fall,  Therese, 
the  maid,  ran  in.  Madame  de  Vrenel  was  dead.  A 
little  blood  was  coming  from  her  mouth,  and  a  great 
tear  ran  down  from  the  corner  of  an  eyelid. 

A  splendid  death !  Fernande  de  Vrenel  had  never 
been  in  more  perfect  health  than  this  year.  Occa- 
sionally a  feeling  of  oppression,  and  a  hand  raised 
quickly  to  the  breast.  The  aneurism  had  developed 

199 


200  WHEN  SHE  WAS  DEAD 

slowly,  without  pain.  If  Nature  considered  us  in 
any  way,  she  would  always  act  like  this. 

Instantly  the  house  became  full  of  the  terrified 
clamor  of  the  servants,  and  Maurice  de  Longy, 
who  was  waiting  in  the  hall,  his  hat  on  his  head,  his 
scarf  round  his  neck,  rushed  upstairs.  The  parquet 
floor  resounded  as  he  dropped  heavily  on  his  knees 
by  the  side  of  the  dead  woman.  The  doctor  had 
been  sent  for,  and  while  they  waited,  Maurice  lifted 
Fernande  in  his  arms  and  placed  her  on  the  bed. 
The  tear  had  left  its  trace  on  the  powdered  cheek, 
and  the  blood  was  trickling  down  by  the  side  of  the 
finely-modeled  chin.  Pushed  forward  by  the  pillow, 
the  pale  gold  waving  hair  framed  the  face.  You 
could  hear  the  silence. 

At  the  head  of  the  bed,  Maurice,  a  man  whose 
features  had  been  hardened  into  impassivity  by  a 
political  career,  bent  over  the  quiet  form  with  his 
face  distraught,  and  the  maid,  Therese,  who  usually 
looked  the  soubrette  of  comedy,  had  the  air  of  a 
peasant  as  she  crossed  herself. 

The  doctor  hurried  in.  At  once  precision  routed 
disorder.  Then  came  the  words: 

"There  is  nothing  to  be  done." 

The  sobs  that  broke  out  were  dominated  by  the 
voice  at  the  telephone  summoning  relatives. 

Their  emotion  created  an  atmosphere  of  fever, 
the  excitement  that  helps  us  through  tragedies. 
Every  one  treated  Maurice  de  Longy  as  the  master 
of  the  house,  as  if  death  had  suddenly  made  official 
the  love-affair  on  which  Paris  had  smiled  for  nearly 
ten  years. 

The  harmony  of  the  relationship  of  this  couple 


WHEN  SHE  WAS  DEAD  201 

had  been  welcomed  by  society.  People  respected  it 
because  of  its  double  fidelity.  Since  the  death  of 
Monsieur  de  Vrenel,  since  the  disappearance  of 
Madame  de  Longy,  who  had  gone  away  with  a 
lover,  there  was  hardly  a  day  when  Fernande  and 
Maurice  had  not  dined  together.  This  evening  they 
were  being  waited  for  at  an  Embassy.  On  the  bed 
Madame  de  Vrenel  lay  in  full  evening  dress.  It 
was  necessary  to  undress  her  at  once,  and  the  room 
was  emptied. 

Down  in  the  hall,  Maurice  said  good-by  to  every 
one,  and  by  degrees  the  big  house  grew  quiet  again. 
It  was  in  the  Avenue  du  Bois,  and  it  was  winter. 

Not  a  sound.  Sometimes  a  servant  crept  by  as 
Maurice  walked  up  and  down  the  hall.  He  had 
suddenly  taken  on  his  age.  An  hour  before  one 
would  have  imagined  he  was  barely  forty.  Now  he 
looked  fifty-two,  and  his  shoulders  were  bent  as  if 
he  were  old.  The  movement  and  rhythm  of  his 
steps  helped  to  give  form  to  his  thoughts,  which 
had  been  circling  confusedly  round  the  vision  of  a 
tear  running  down  a  cheek  and  a  chin  stained  with 
blood,  and  the  questions,  puerile  and  selfish:  "Why?" 
and  "What  will  become  of  me?" 

Once  he  had  said  to  Fernande : 

"How  glad  I  am  that  I  am  so  much  older  than 
you.  I  have  come  through  several  catastrophes,  but 
to  lose  you  would  kill  me." 

And  he  was  conscious  of  surprise  that  he  was  still 
alive,  to  hear  his  own  steps,  to  feel  that  his  heart 
was  still  beating  in  a  body  that  seemed  strong  and 

robust. 

.*          *          *          *          *          *          * 


202  WHEN  SHE  WAS  DEAD 

The  death-chamber  was  now  in  order. 

To-morrow  the  priests  and  the  prayers.  To-night 
Fernande  belonged  to  him.  It  was  their  last  tete-a- 
tete,  their  last  lovers'  meeting — and  as  chaste  as  all 
the  others. 

Yes,  the  beautiful  body  whose  outlines  showed 
through  the  white  covering  had  never  belonged  to 
this  lover,  passionate  though  he  was,  and  those  whom 
every  one  believed  to  be  lover  and  mistress  had  only 
been  friends. 

He  approached  the  bed.  They  had  wiped  the 
blood  from  the  mouth.  One  day,  long  ago,  before 
Fernande's  widowhood,  Maurice  had  kissed  this 
mouth.  Only  once.  Why?  He  had  at  the  time  felt 
sure  that  he  would  eventually  possess  her.  She 
seemed  to  offer  herself  .  .  .  But  the  kiss  had  been 
followed  by:  "Never  again!  You  must  not!  You 
must  not!  We  must  never  be  more  to  each  other 
than  we  are  now!"  and  the  woman  who  had  co- 
quetted with  him  had  suddenly  become  a  sort  of 
saint.  He  had  accepted  the  position.  He  had  done 
all  in  his  power  to  maintain  it,  even  finding  a  kind 
of  pleasure  in  the  suffering  it  entailed.  The  most 
foolhardy  of  games,  and  one  that  intoxicates  more 
surely  than  opium  or  morphia.  An  unhappy  and 
incomplete  love  dominates  the  heart,  and  creates  a 
lack  of  mental  equilibrium.  Sensuality  becomes  sep- 
arated from  love,  and  the  love  becomes  a  kind  of 
malady  of  the  mind.  Oh,  to  be  lying  there  lifeless 
beside  her,  free  from  the  new  torture  of  wondering 
whether  he  had  been  right  or  wrong!  .  .  . 

Again  Maurice  began  to  pace  heavily  up  and  down 
the  room.     Longer  than  its  breadth,  it  had  three 


WHEN  SHE  WAS  DEAD  203 

curtain-covered  windows.  The  bed  was  at  the  end 
of  the  room,  and  between  it  and  one  of  the  windows 
there  was  a  portiere  that  covered  a  little  door  that 
communicated  with  the  servants'  staircase,  made 
there  by  the  caprice  of  an  actress  who  once  owned 
the  house. 

They  had  often  laughed  about  the  door. 

"Would  you  like  me  to  give  you  the  key?"  Fer- 
nande  had  once  said. 

Maurice's  face  had  changed  color  at  the  sugges- 
tion. Their  relationship  was  pure  enough  for  Fer- 
nande  to  be  able  to  regret  her  own  lack  of  tempera- 
ment. "Something  is  wanting  in  me,"  she  had  said. 
And  Maurice  had  replied  by  praising  the  beauty  and 
nobility  of  purely  spiritual  love.  Fernande  had  re- 
sponded by  her  charming,  weary  smile.  And  now 
he  was  wondering  whether  he  had  been  right  in 
accepting  the  unnatural  position. 

Immersed  in  sad,  strange  thoughts,  he  continued 
to  pace  up  and  down.  Time  was  passing,  and  the 
corpse  had  taken  on  the  beauty  that  comes  some 
hours  after  death.  Fernande  was  lovelier  than  in 
life;  she  looked  younger,  and  as  he  paused  to  look 
at  her,  Maurice  realized  how  unique  she  had  been, 
how  incomparable. 

He  sank  into  the  armchair  by  the  bedside,  weep- 
ing, his  hands  pressed  to  his  eyes. 

Suddenly  an  unusual  sound,  a  crunching,  a  grating, 
filled  him  with  the  terror  of  the  supernatural,  and  as 
the  clock  struck  one,  the  hanging  over  the  secret  doot 
moved.  There  was  no  light  in  the  room  but  that  of 
the  candles  at  the  head  of  the  bed,  and  as  he  sensed 
rather  than  saw  that  the  portiere  was  drawn  aside, 


204  WHEN  SHE  WAS  DEAD 

Maurice  de  Longy  cowered  in  his  chair.  Some  one 
came  in  on  tiptoe,  a  man  in  an  elegant  overcoat,  a 
man  who  was  evidently  not  here  for  the  first  time, 
who  knew  the  room  well,  and  he  murmured : 

"Fernande!" 

Maurice  knew  the  voice.    He  started  up : 

"What  are  you  doing  here?" 

And  he  who  had  stolen  in  like  a  thief,  Philippe 
Dormeaux,  a  Don  Juan  with  a  reputation  for  great 
success  in  light  love,  started,  and  stood  still.  He 
began  to  stammer. 

"Be  quiet!"  said  Maurice.  "Don't  you  know? 
She  is  dead. 

The  eyes  of  both  men  turned  to  the  dead  woman, 
who  seemed  to  be  smiling  at  them. 

"Dead!"  murmured  Philippe. 

"Yes.     Go  away." 

But  Philippe  repeated: 

"Dead!" 

"Yes,"  said  Maurice,  advancing  threateningly 
towards  him.  "Clear  out!" 

Were  they  going  to  fly  at  each  other's  throats?  .  .  . 

Philippe  turned  away,  but  the  other  placed  his 
hand  heavily  on  his  shoulder. 

"Stay!  .  .  .  How  long  have  you  ...  go  on! 
Tell  me !  I  want  to  know !  .  .  .  Oh,  yes,  yes,  you 
shall  tell  me!" 

He  seized  him  by  the  throat,  and  Philippe,  a 
coward  before  physical  strength,  confessed,  hiding 
his  fear  under  an  ignoble  vanity.  The  secret  liaison 
which  had  given  him  this  key  and  the  right  to  enter 
by  the  servants'  staircase,  began  before  the  death  of 
Monsieur  de  Vrenel.  The  woman,  whose  dead  face 


WHEN  SHE  WAS  DEAD  205 

seemed  to  smile  at  them,  had  belonged  to  both  of 
them  at  the  same  time  without  letting  one  infringe 
on  the  rights  of  the  other,  except  on  that  one  occa- 
sion when  Maurice  had  been  allowed  to  kiss  her. 

"You  need  not  be  jealous,"  sneered  Philippe.  "It 
was  you  she  loved." 

And  he  explained  that  for  him  she  was  merely 
a  courtesan  who  succumbed  to  her  instincts,  the  vic- 
tim of  her  appetites,  but  with  Maurice  it  was  dif- 
ferent .  .  . 

"You  have  nothing  to  be  jealous  about!" 

Maurice  let  go,  and  turned  away  murmuring: 

"She  never  loved  me.    You  don't  know  .  .  ." 

"It  is  I  she  never  loved,"  replied  Philippe.  "She 
gave  me  her  nights  on  condition  that  I  never  saw 
her  during  the  day.  I  was  merely  a  servant  who  .  .  ." 

"She  made  a  fool  of  me,"  protested  Maurice. 
"She  wished  me  to  adore  her  as  one  would  a  saint!" 

"She  wanted  to  be  taken  possession  of  as  if  she 
were  a  light  woman,"  said  Philippe. 

Then  full  of  his  unclean  experiences,  he  added: 

"Most  women  are  the  same  .  .  ." 

"Silence !"  cried  Maurice. 

In  the  stillness  that  followed,  the  two  men  gave 
themselves  up  to  their  own  thoughts,  the  one  evoking 
the  chaste  poem  he  had  lived,  the  other  the  poem 
of  the  passionate  flesh  he  had  enjoyed.  And  though 
they  remained  there  till  dawn,  till  the  odor  of  death 
had  begun  to  be  evident  in  the  room,  neither  of  them 
succeeded  in  uniting  in  imagination  the  two  person- 
alities that  had  lived  in  the  quiet  form  on  the  bed. 


PAUL  AND  VICTOR  MARGUERITTE 


PAUL  and  VICTOR  MARGUERITTE,  sons  of  the  celebraled  General 
Margueritte  of  the  war  of  1870,  were  born  respectively  in  1860 
and  1866,  and  have  written  much  in  collaboration.  Paul  took  to 
literature  at  once,  and  soon  became  celebrated,  but  Victor  went 
into  the  army,  and  it  was  not  till  he  was  thirty  that  he  began  to 
work  with  his  brother.  Together  they  have  produced  twenty 
books,  and  the  collaboration  lasted  till  the  death  of  Paul.  Several 
of  their  plays  have  been  produced  at  the  Odeon  and  the  Comedie 
Franchise.  "Poum  and  the  Zouave"  is  taken  from  a  book  called 
Fount,  every  chapter  of  which  describes  an  incident  in  the  history 
of  a  little  boy. 


XXI 

POUM  AND  THE  ZOUAVE 
By  PAUL  AND  VICTOR  MARGUERITTE 

ONE  day  when  his  parents  had  left  him  at  home 
as  a  punishment,  Poum  was  exceedingly  bored. 
He  had  exhausted  all  the  expedients  of  his  fertile 
little  brain;  he  had  worried  the  dog,  had  pumped  his 
shoes  full  of  water,  had  taken  fright  at  a  cockroach, 
had  hunted  the  flies,  had  turned  on  the  watertaps  in 
the  basin,  had  yelled  to  his  heart's  desire,  then  had 
called  down  dire  penalties  on  the  head  of  his  friend 
Zette  because  she  did  not  come  to  him,  had  sniffed 
vigorously  to  catch  the  smell  of  her  pomaded  hair 
on  the  breeze,  had  dreamt  that  he  was  the  Pope,  had 
decided  to  become  a  soldier  and  cut  off  the  heads  of 
his  enemies,  had  set  his  heart  on  a  musical  box  as 
a  New  Year's  present,  had  invented  a  new  and  belit- 
tling name  for  his  tutor,  had  gone  over  the  next 
day's  lesson,  "the  principal  rivers  of  France  are  .  .  . 
are  .  .  ."  without  being  able  to  name  a  single  one 
of  them,  whereupon  a  precocious  hatred  of  the  whole 
world  had  fallen  upon  him,  and  emulating  the  ex- 
tremes of  a  Nero  who  had  read  Schopenhauer,  the 
afore-mentioned  Poum  began  first  to  hop  along  the 
garden-walks  on  one  foot,  tearing  the  leaves  from 
the  bushes  as  he  passed,  then  he  turned  himself  into 
a  locomotive:  "Phou!  Phou!  Phou!"  This  brought 

209 


210  POUM  AND  THE  ZOUAVE 

him  as  far  as  the  dining-room  where  there  was  fruit 
to  be  pilfered,  when — wonder  upon  wonders! — a 
rare  being,  whose  oddity  would  haunt  him  to  the  end 
of  his  days,  appeared  before  him. 

It  was  a  Zouave. 

Perched  on  a  ladder,  showing  baggy  red  trousers 
under  a  canvas  smock,  this  Zouave  was  painting  the 
woodwork  of  the  ceiling.  He  did  not  seem  in  the 
least  surprised  to  sec  a  locomotive  puff  its  way  into 
a  dining-room,  and  called  out: 

"Puffer's  Town!  Ten  minutes'  stop!  For  re- 
freshments !" 

As  Poum  came  to  a  standstill,  divided  in  his  mind 
between  delight  and  the  doubt  if  he  ought  to  take 
"Puffer's  Town"  as  a  joke  or  an  insult,  the  Zouave 
looked  down  on  him  with  a  cunning  air,  showing 
teeth  stained  like  a  tobacco-pipe,  then  solemnly  bring- 
ing the  paintbrush  up  to  the  level  of  his  eyes,  said: 

"Greeting,  my  Colonel!" 

Poum  assumed  a  haughty  look,  that  with  which 
he  imagined  his  father,  the  real  Colonel,  half-raised 
his  forearm  when  he  returned  the  salutes  of  his  or- 
derlies. He  even  deigned  to  say  condescendingly: 

"If  your  ladder  isn't  firm,  you'll  have  a  jolly  tum- 
ble." 

"That  would  cure  me  nicely  of  my  twisty-me- 
grims!" said  the  Zouave,  who  thereupon  began  to 
stretch  and  contract  his  neck  in  an  odd  fashion,  and 
then  to  roll  it  round  and  round  on  his  shoulders  as 
if  he  wanted  to  throw  his  head  out  of  the  window. 

A  cry  of  terror  and  admiration  forced  itself  from 
Poum. 


POUM  AND  THE  ZOUAVE  211 

"Oh I  Bother!"  The  Zouave  appeared  very  an- 
noyed as  he  said  this.  "There's  my  eye  just  dropped 
out!  You  might  have  a  look  round  for  it,  please, 
there,  under  the  ladder,  to  the  left." 

'And  in  truth  his  left  eye  was  now  closed,  and  it 
looked  as  if  there  was  nothing  under  the  eyelid. 

"That's  the  second  time  it's  happened  from  my 
wagging  my  head  too  hard !  The  last  time  was  when 
I  was  out  shooting  with  my  friend  Barbary  in  Tar* 
tary,  and  a  crocodile  gobbled  it  up  that  time !" 

"I  can't  find  any  eye  on  the  floor,"  said  Poum, 
who  was  looking,  half  believing,  so  strongly  had  the 
Zouave's  composure  impressed  him. 

The  man  cut  a  wild  caper,  and  scrambled  down 
the  ladder  to  the  floor,  snatching  wildly  in  his  funny 
zigzag  descent  at  some  invisible  object  which  he 
apparently  found  and  placed  in  his  eye-socket,  secur- 
ing its  position  with  a  resounding  smack. 

'  'Ello,  Matthew,  old  chap,  how  do  you  like  being 
back  again?" 

He  lifted  his  eyelid,  showing  that  both  his  eyes 
were  in  place. 

Much  relieved,  Poum  began  to  laugh.  So  did 
the  Zouave. 

"Exactly  like  the  crocodile,"  he  said.  "He  laughed 
so  much  after  having  swallowed  my  eye,  that  out  it 
came  again,  just  like  it  used  to  happen  when  my 
grandmother  used  to  swallow  the  five-franc  pieces." 

Poum's  eyes  opened  wide  in  astonishment. 

"You  don't  believe  me,  then?"  said  the  Zouave. 
"Perhaps  you  never  heard  of  my  grandmother, 
Whiska  Scaramoustacha,  of  Callow's  Lane,  Bur- 


212  POUM  AND  THE  ZOUAVE 

glar's  Town?    For  all  that,  she's  very  well  known." 

Very  firmly,  but  quite  politely,  Poum  declared  that 
he  had  never  heard  of  her. 

"Have  you  a  five-franc  piece?" 

Poum  shook  his  head. 

"Well,  a  two-franc  piece?" 

"No." 

"You  must  have  at  least  half-a-franc!"  said  this 
man  with  such  commanding  irony  that  Poum,  though 
already  feeling  uneasy,  wormed  a  brand  new  half- 
franc  from  the  depths  of  his  pocket  where  it  lay 
between  a  top  and  a  leaden  soldier. 

"There's  no  cleverness  in  this,  a  child  could  swal- 
low it  easy.  Never  mind !  Ouap !" 

As  he  made  this  barking  noise,  the  Zouave  gulped 
down  the  coin. 

"Oh!    Give  it  back  to  me!"  Poum  begged. 

The  man  opened  his  eyes  wide. 

"But  how  can  I  when  I've  swallowed  it?" 

"Oh !    Give  me  back  my  money !" 

"Look  here !  I  must  be  getting  on  with  my  work. 
Painting  don't  exactly  do  itself,  and  what  would 
your  papa  say?" 

He  pretended  to  climb  the  ladder. 

"My  half-franc  1"  groaned  Poum. 

The  Zouave  assumed  an  air  of  suspicion,  and  with 
an  inquisitorial  voice  asked: 

"Are  you  sure  it  was  silver?    It  wasn't  lead?" 

"It  was  half-a-franc  in  silver  and  quite  new." 

"But  are  you  abso-bloomin-lutely  sure  about  it?" 

He  put  such  anguish  into  the  tone  of  his  question 
that  Poum  stammered  out: 

"Why?" 


POUM  AND  THE  ZOUAVE  213 

"Because  if  your  coin's  bad,  you'd  better  tell  me 
straight  off.  I'm  a  dead  man." 

He  gripped  his  stomach  with  both  his  hands,  and 
his  features  worked  convulsively : 

"It  was  a  bad  coin.    I'm  poisoned!" 

He  began  to  writhe. 

"There's  only  one  way  to  cure  me.  Don't  make 
any  noise,  and  don't  call  any  one.  A  nice  cigar  would 
save  my  life  or  a  pipeful  of  tobacco !  Is  there  any 
baccy  here?  Oh!  How  it  hurts  me!  Half  a 
mo'  .  .  .  I've  heard  say  that  a  glass  of  rum  is  a 
cure.  .  .  .  Oh !  My  eye !  What  tortures !  ...  or 
any  sort  of  drink.  ...  Ah!  ...  Ah!  Ah!  la, 
la!" 

Poum  rushed  over  to  the  sideboard,  snatched  the 
decanter,  and  filling  a  wineglass  to  the  brim,  handed 
it  to  the  Zouave,  who  was  showing  the  whites  of  his 
eyes. 

"Oh!  Oh!  Thank  you!  "  He  took  a  sip. 
"Why  it's  .  .  .  ouye!  Ah!  the  beastly  stuff,  ain't 
it  strong!  It's" — he  smacked  his  lips — "it's  Ai. 
.  .  .  cut  'em  in  bits  and  put  'em  together  again!" 

He  poured  the  rest  of  it  down  his  throat  and  said: 

"There's  no  more  danger  .  .  ,  the  coin's  melted!" 

He  looked  at  Poum  with  a  frank,  unanswerable 
look. 

"Melted!     Psst!     Dissolved!     Evaporated!" 

"My  money!"  Poum  began  again. 

The  Zouave  opened  on  him  in  a  soothing  profes- 
sorial voice: 

"There  was  once  a  queen  who  was  called  Cleo- 
paster,  in  the  time  of  Saint  Anthony.  One  day  she 
took  and  swallowed  her  ear-rings,  and  they  were 


214  POUM  AND  THE  ZOUAVE 

pearl  ones,  just  because  she  took  a  fancy  to  'em. 
Then  she  went  and  swallowed  a  great  pot  of  vinegar 
to  help  digest  them,  and  if  she  hadn't,  Great  Barbery 
Apes  and  Monkeys!  they'd  just  have  laid  on  her 
stomach." 

Then  he  added  thoughtfully: 

"There's  no  doubt  about  that.  Look  here  .  .  . 
I  ...  I'm  a  freemason.  Ever  seen  the  mark?" 

He  pulled  up  his  sleeve :  on  his  hairy  white  arm 
was  a  heart,  tattooed  in  blue  and  transfixed  by  an 
arrow. 

"That  means  that  if  a  freemason  tells  you  a  secret, 
and  you  give  it  away  you  can  be  dead  sure  that  a 
ghost  will  come  along  and  pierce  your  heart,  and 
you'll  die.  Supposing  you  tell  your  papa  that  you 
were  talking  to  me,  and  tell  him  all  that  passed  be- 
tween us" — the  Zouave  looked  steadily  at  Poum  in 
a  terrifying  manner — "well,  that  night,  when  every- 
body's asleep,  a  hand  will  come  crawling  out  from 
under  your  bed,  and  a  big  Death's  Head  will  come 
squirming  up  and  .  .  ." 

The  Zouave  stopped  short,  for  all  the  world  as 
if  the  apparition  had  appeared  and  turned  him  into 
stone,  whilst  an  awe-inspiring  voice,  issuing  from  a 
mouth  bristling  with  a  white  mustache,  sounded 
from  the  end  of  the  room: 

"Go  on,  Zouave,  go  on!" 

Poum  jumped  like  a  fish  out  of  water  as  he  recog- 
nized his  father,  the  Colonel,  who  said  sternly,  with- 
out even  looking  at  Poum : 

"Give  back  that  little  fool's  money !" 

The  Zouave  turned  red,  redder  than  his  trousers, 
and  returned  the  half-franc.  Poum  took  it,  de- 


POUM  AND  THE  ZOUAVE  215 

lighted  to  have  it,  but  humiliated  at  being  described 
to  his  mystifier  as  a  "little  fool." 

The  Colonel  looked  at  the  sideboard,  the  unstop- 
pered  decanter,  the  empty  glass.  There  was  a  dead 
silence  whilst  he  chewed  the  ends  of  his  mustache: 

"Did  you  find  my  brandy  good?"  he  asked  at  last 
in  a  sarcastic  and  terrifying  voice. 

Silence  on  the  part  of  the  Zouave,  his  hands  held 
close  to  the  seams  of  his  trousers, 

"Did  you  find  my  brandy  good?"  he  repeated  still 
louder. 

Then  lower  than  a  whisper,  almost  inaudible,  the 
voice  of  the  Zouave  came  back. 

"Yes,  my  Colonel." 

"Delighted  to  hear  it!  Well,  my  man,  I  hope  it's 
put  some  energy  into  you!  Don't  deprive  yourself 
of  the  pleasure  of  going  on  with  your  work  because 
I  happen  to  be  here !" 

The  Zouave  leapt  up  his  ladder  and  began  to  dab 
wildly  at  the  cornice,  transfixed  by  the  lynx-eye  of 
his  Commanding  Officer,  whilst  Poum,  feeling  very 
small  indeed,  tried  not  to  sniffle  as  he  turned  his  half- 
franc  about  in  his  pocket. 


VICTOR  MARGUERITTE 


VICTOR  MARGUERITTE — a  notice  of  whom  has  been  given  in  con- 
nection with  "Poum  and  the  Zouave" — has  also  written  books, 
plays  and  poems  under  his  own  signature.  "The  Whipper- 
Snapper"  is  taken  from  a  volume  called  Le  Journal  d'un  Moblot, 
in  which  an  old  soldier  tells  various  experiences  of  the  war  of  '70. 


THE  WHIPPER-SNAPPER 


"T7VEN  an  old  soldier  like  me,  who,  in  the  course 
•*— '  of  his  life,  has  been  through  some  pretty  rough 
experiences,  finds  himself  not  infrequently  in  situa- 
tions so  difficult  that,  die-hard  and  patriot  as  he  may 
be,  he  is  moved  to  the  point  of  asking  himself 
whether  one  really  has  the  right  to  do  what  one 
does,  and  whether  under  the  pretext  that  discipline 
requires  it,  he  is  truly  justified  in  stifling  in  himself 
every  human  feeling. 

"Of  course  I  am  not  talking  of  the  moment  of 
actual  fighting.  At  such  times  there  is  no  chance  to 
reflect,  besides  which  you  feel  that  you  are  fulfilling 
a  lofty  duty.  You  are  driven  on  by  the  unarmed 
mass  which,  behind  you,  by  every  home-fire  of  your 
native  land,  is  sobbing  and  waiting  expectantly:  you 
are  borne  on  by  a  sort  of  intoxication,  a  bravery  that 
whips  up  your  blood,  and  which  surely  comes  from 
far  back,  from  your  unknown  ancestors,  from  a  long 
past  of  wars.  And  then,  above  all,  you  have  to  save 
your  own  skin,  and  that  instinct,  my  lad,  keeps  you 
up  to  the  mark. 

"No,  I  am  talking  of  the  times  when  no  fighting 
is  going  on;  when,  on  the  contrary,  you  are  dreading 

219 


220  THE  WHIPPER-SNAPPER 

the  coming  battle,  and  yet  have  to  be  ready  for  it.  It 
is  then  that  you  have  ample  leisure  to  reflect.  In 
spite  of  yourself  you  take  to  wondering  at  the  mo- 
tives of  your  actions,  motives  that  at  times  compel 
you  to  act.  I  confess  that  when  I  went  back  to  the 
Army  after  some  years  of  civilian  life,  I  had  pretty 
well  lost  the  habit  of  doing  so. 

"I  served  many  years  in  Algeria;  I  won  my  com- 
mission as  second-lieutenant  in  the  Crimea,  then  I 
was  promoted  captain  on  retiring  in  1865.  All  my 
life  has  been  spent  in  a  disciplined  army.  No,  I 
never  'had  any  trouble  in  obeying  orders,  for  I  had 
good  officers.  Anyhow,  if  I  did  occasionally  grouse 
at  an  order — strictly  to  myself — I  did  not  refuse  to 
obey,  because  those  who  gave  me  the  command  had 
the  right  to  do  so.  They  were  most  truly  my  superi- 
ors, either  through  seniority  or  through  greater  tal- 
ents and  education. 

"Afterwards,  when  I  retired,  I  took  to  the  life  of 
a  peace-loving  man  of  the  middle  class.  Those  were 
mighty  happy  years  I  spent  then,  in  my  dear  little 
townlet  of  Fondettes,  where  I  had  a  little  house  and 
a  little  garden,  and  the  'Three  Kings'  Inn,  where  I 
used  to  play  bowls  on  Sundays.  I  used  to  recall  the 
past  pleasantly  to  enjoy  the  present.  Then,  suddenly 
the  future  crashed  on  me  like  a  bolt  out  of  the  blue. 
I  still  go  nowadays,  on  Sundays,  to  play  bowls  at  the 
'Three  Kings,'  but  the  landlord  is  not  the  man  I 
once  knew,  and  on  the  white  wall  of  the  inn  you  can 
see  the  twelve  holes  made  by  the  Prussian  bullets 
that  shot  down  his  predecessor. 

"But  I  am  wandering.  Where  had  I  got  to?  Ah, 
yes,  I  remember:  the  surprise  I  felt,  the  sensation 


THE  WHIPPER-SNAPPER  221 

of  strangeness  when,  after  the  terrible  shocks  caused 
by  the  news  of  Woerth  and  Gravelotte,  and  some- 
what later  the  shameful  catastrophe  of  Sedan,  I 
found  myself  back  in  the  Army  again  just  as  of  yore. 
No,  I  am  wrong;  it  was  not  as  of  yore;  all  was 
changed. 

"In  point  of  fact  there  was  not  an  Army  any 
longer.  The  old  Army  had  vanished.  Fifty  thou- 
sand men  were  sleeping  their  last  sleep  away  yonder 
— all  along  the  frontier,  in  the  ditches  by  the  road- 
side, in  the  graves  in  the  fields.  A  hundred  thousand 
more  had  just  marched  past,  beaten  and  cowed,  in 
front  of  the  Prussian  eagles:  a  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  more  were  soon  to  do  the  same,  leaving 
Metz  standing,  full  of  guns  and  colors. 

"As  for  Paris,  no  one  knew  what  was  going  to 
happen  there,  but  we  kept  on  hoping.  The  city  was 
impregnable :  first-class  generals  were  there  training 
numerous  troops  to  fighting-pitch:  mere  rumor  per- 
haps, but  it  encouraged  our  morale.  But  in  the  prov- 
inces, at  Tours,  what  a  mess!  The  Cabinet  Minis- 
ters were  settled  permanently  there :  full  of  the  most 
absurd  confidence  one  day,  and  plunged  the  next  into 
the  most  ghastly  despondency,  just  as  news  was  good 
or  bad.  The  news !  Enough  to  drive  any  one  crazy, 
contradictory  as  it  was,  coming  in  shoals  and  always 
false.  The  newspapers  hysterical,  the  departmental 
administrations  crazed  and  upset.  And  with  it  all, 
the  public,  strolling  along  the  streets,  laughing,  chat- 
ting, struck  by  the  novelty  of  the  situation,  and  find- 
ing in  it  food  for  amusement. 

"Meanwhile,  the  so-called  Army  was  nothing  but 
a  huge  multitude  in  the  process  of  being  organized. 


222  THE  WHIPPER-SNAPPER 

In  the  towns  there  was  an  endless  mingling  of  incon- 
gruous uniforms:  officers  of  every  branch  of  the 
service:  Garibaldines,  Pontifical  Zouaves,  Territori- 
als and  gaily-colored  francs-tireurs.  By  the  side  of 
brand-new,  gold-laced  uniforms,  other  uniforms 
patched  and  in  rags.  And  Red  Cross  men,  enough 
of  them  to  justify  the  belief  that  there  were  more 
stretcher-bearers  and  doctors  than  men.  In  the 
camps,  a  dirty,  undisciplined  infantry,  composed  of 
old  soldiers  scooped  up  from  anywhere,  or  else  of 
beardless  lads:  Territorials  who  did  not  know  how 
to  handle  their  weapons:  these  often  no  more  than 
old  breech-loaders;  very  little  cavalry,  very  ill- 
horsed:  an  insignificant  number  of  guns,  with 
wretched  teams.  And  the  whole  lot  equipped  any- 
how and  insufficiently  fed  and  provisioned. 

"But  the  worst  of  all  was  the  corps  of  officers. 
There  was  no  uniformity,  no  fusion.  The  officers 
were  either  too  old  or  too  young.  Some,  like  my- 
self, white-bearded  crocks;  others,  men  from  any- 
where :  business  men,  lawyers  or  else  mere  whipper- 
snappers  with  scarce  a  hair  on  their  lips.  I  cannot, 
though  three  years  have  gone  by,  utter  that  word 
'whipper-snapper,'  I  cannot  think  of  it  without  feel- 
ing my  hand  tremble  and  my  eyes  fill  with  tears. 

"I  spoke  just  now  of  the  trying  times  that  come 
occasionally  to  a  soldier  in  the  course  of  his  service. 
Well,  the  remembrance  of  one  of  the  most  painful 
of  those  times  is  bound  up  for  me  in  that  word — so 
inoffensive  apparently — 'whipper-snapper.'  It  is  of 
the  evils  of  a  hierarchy  formed  at  haphazard,  of  the 
inevitable  relaxation  of  the  bonds  of  discipline,  of 
the  indispensable  need  for  its  maintenance,  and  of 


THE  WHIPPER-SN  ^PPER  223 

the  soul-problems  which  may  result,  that  I  was  think- 
ing when  I  sorrowfully  alluded  to  'trying  times.' 

"We  had  just  been  beaten  at  Toury  and  d'Arte- 
nay;  Orleans  was  in  the  hands  of  the  Bavarians,  and 
General  de  la  Motte-Rouge  had  just  passed  over  his 
command  to  General  d'Aurelles  de  Paladine,  Gam- 
betta  having  superseded  the  former.  So  we  were 
concentrated,  the  whole  of  the  I5th  Army  Corps,  in 
the  camp  at  Salbris.  We  spent  a  fortnight  there 
which,  hardened  old  soldier  that  I  was,  and  accus- 
tomed to  the  regularity  of  duties,  was  terribly 
fatiguing.  From  morning  to  night  we  had  to  organ- 
ize, to  create,  to  superintend,  to  drill  and  train  the 
men.  That,  however,  did  not  matter  much  to  us: 
the  hard  part  was  to  impress  on  these  men,  who  had 
never  had  it  taught  them,  or  who,  having  once 
learned,  had  forgotten  it — which  is  worse — the  strict 
sense  of  the  blind  respect  for  discipline. 

"It  happened  that  in  camp  I  met  one  of  my 
friends.  In  the  old  days  we  had  been  non-commis- 
sioned officers  together  at  Setif.  I,  an  old  junior 
in  the  Zouaves;  he  a  newly-joined  artilleryman.  We 
were  glad  to  meet,  I  can  tell  you.  He  knew  me  at 
once,  and  we  embraced  each  other  in  spite  of  the 
difference  of  rank,  for  he  was  still  a  non-com.,  having 
merely  served  his  time.  He  told  me  his  whole  story : 
he  was  now  settled  in  Marseilles:  he  was  married, 
and  had  a  family.  Quite  happy,  he  was  only  forty, 
and  he  had  made  his  pile  almost.  Of  his  children, 
one  was  nine  years  old,  and  the  other,  a  little  girl, 
seven,  with  her  mother's  lovely  blue  eyes  and  long, 
fair  hair. 

"The  poor  chap  was  called  Poulot.    He  was  such 


224  THE  WHIPPER-SNAPPER 

a  good  fellow,  beloved  by  all  his  comrades,  always 
ready  with  the  word  of  hope  or  encouragement — a 
good,  quick  worker  and  a  first-rate  comrade.  But 
the  pity  of  it  was  that  his  battery  was  commanded 
by  a  very  youthful  captain,  who  had  passed  through 
the  Central  School  of  Gunnery,  and  who  was  as  much 
of  a  soldier  as  the  Pope.  All  the  same,  a  sharp, 
autocratic  look,  and  a  dry,  insolent  way  of  giving 
orders.  He  sneered  at  the  oldest  gunners,  and 
treated  like  a  dog  even  an  old  and  reliable  non-com. 
So  one  day  when  he  gave  an  order  that  struck  Poulot 
as  idiotic,  Poulot  lost  patience,  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders and  murmured :  'Whipper-snapper !' 

"He  was  at  once  put  under  arrest,  taken  to  the 
cells  and  then  before  a  court-martial.  There  was  no 
fooling  just  then :  orders  were  imperative  and  severe; 
they  had  to  be,  of  course.  I  saw  a  boy  of  eighteen, 
who  had  volunteered,  and  who,  his  enthusiasm  hav- 
ing evaporated,  had  tried  to  bolt,  I  saw  him  con- 
demned to  death.  I  saw  men  condemned  to  be  shot 
for  stealing  a  hen,  a  turkey — and  then  I  think  of 
the  unpunished  stragglers  who  deserted  in  hundreds ! 
And  of  pillage  and  murder  sanctioned  at  other 
times ! 

"Well,  Poulot  was  duly  shot.  I  learned  of  his 
blunder  and  his  doom  at  one  and  the  same  time.  It 
was  but  three  days  before  that  I  had  seen  him  bright, 
happy,  in  fine  health.  I  confess  that  much  as  I  love 
the  Army,  much  as  I  love  France,  soldier  through 
and  through  though  I  am,  the  day  on  which  that 
piece  of  news  made  my  heart  stop  beating,  I  lost  all 
love  of  life,  and  my  sword  seemed  to  me  to  be  no 
less  horrible  than  a  murderer's  knife.  I  asked  my- 


THE  WHIPPER-SNAPPER  225 

self,  shuddering  with  revolt  and  anguish,  whether 
the  cult  of  discipline  was  always  intelligently  under- 
stood, and  whether — blind  and  deaf  god  that  it  is — 
it  had  the  right  to  exact  such  sacrifices." 


PIERRE  MILLE 


PIERRE  MILLE,  born  at  Choisy-le-Roi  in  1864,  had  a  distinguished 
career  in  government  service  at  Madagascar,  West  Africa,  the 
Congo,  and  elsewhere,  and  was  well  known  as  a  writer  on  political 
economy  and  Colonial  questions  before  he  published  in  1906  his 
first  book  of  short  stories,  Sur  la  vaste  terre.  From  time  to  time 
novels  have  followed,  but  it  is  chiefly  as  the  writer  of  short 
stories  that  he  is  most  widely  known.  "Number  13"  is  taken  from 
a  collection  of  contcs  called  La  Biche  ecrasee. 


XXIII 


By  PIERRE  MILLE 

Tj^ROM  time  to  time  Elise  Herminier  woke  up  be- 
•*•  cause  sharp  surges  of  sudden  pain  passed 
through  the  lower  part  of  her  back;  it  was  the  mus- 
cles getting  into  place  again  after  her  confinement; 
the  doctor  had  warned  her  that  it  would  be  so.  The 
anguish  which  made  breathing  difficult,  causing  her 
heart  to  beat  painfully,  bringing  the  sweat  to  her 
forehead,  did  not  alarm  her;  the  worst  was  over, 
for  the  baby  was  there,  alive  and  well  beside  her. 
She  had  only  to  put  out  her  hand  to  touch  him. 

Out  of  the  money  she  had  earned  going  out  as  a 
daily  help,  Elise  had  been  able  to  save  enough  to 
prepare  the  indispensable  baby-clothes,  but  nothing 
for  a  cradle;  and  the  little  one  slept  close  by  her  in 
the  narrow  bed  of  which  a  kindly  neighbor  had  just 
hurriedly  changed  the  sheets.  If  she  had  possessed 
more  strength,  she  would  have  loved  to  unswathe 
him,  to  see  his  arms,  his  legs,  his  tiny  body,  so  that 
she  might  feast  her  eyes  on  the  wonderful  mystery 
that  confused  her  thoughts  .  .  .  that  she,  a  woman, 
had  been  able  to  make  a  little  man ! 

The  room  was  very  small ;  it  was  a  very  hot  day, 
and  to  give  her  more  air  they  had  left  her  door  wide 
open,  a  door  on  which  No.  13  was  painted  in  black 

229 


230  NUMBER  THIRTEEN 

letters.  Without  moving  her  head,  Elise  could  see 
a  tiled  passage  broken  at  regular  intervals  by  brown 
rectangles  indicating  other  doors  marked  in  a  like 
manner:  the  monotonous  and  dreary  sight  peculiar 
to  the  sixth  floor  of  the  poorer  houses  in  Paris. 
Elise  knew  all  those  who  came  every  night  to  sleep 
there  for  a  few  hours;  a  district  watchman,  all  the 
servants  of  the  house,  a  dressmaker,  and  a  gray- 
haired,  bent,  old  woman  who  occupied  No.  16,  four 
doors  along,  and  who  was  the  envy  of  every  one  on 
that  floor  because  she  was  ending  her  days  in  peace 
with  an  income  of  six  hundred  francs  a  year  left  her 
by  a  former  employer. 

"It's  very  strange  she  'hasn't  been  in  to  see  me," 
thought  Elise;  "she  who  has  nothing  to  do." 

And  when  the  doctor  came  in,  accompanied  by 
the  dressmaker,  she  asked: 

"Do  you  know,  Mademoiselle  Emmeline,  what 
Madame  Granchet's  doing?  She's  always  been  so 
kind." 

The  dressmaker  felt  a  creeping  in  her  spine.  She 
turned  away  her  head.  Madame  Granchet  had  died 
suddenly  during  the  night;  it  had  been  some  sort  of 
fit,  and  they  had  known  nothing  about  it  till  they 
found  her  stiff  and  cold  in  the  morning.  That  was 
not  the  kind  of  news  to  tell  a  woman  who  had  just 
come  through  a  difficult  confinement.  Besides,  the 
lower  classes  have  generally  a  fear  of  death,  a  sim- 
ple and  reverent  fear.  Mademoiselle  Emmeline  had 
been  congratulating  herself  that  her  attendance  on 
Elise  was  a  very  excellent  excuse  for  not  "watching" 
by  the  dead  woman;  others  must  undertake  that 
office. 


NUMBER  THIRTEEN  231 

She  looked  at  the  doctor. 

"Madame  Granchet  is  ill,"  he  said. 

"In  bed?"  asked  Elise. 

"Yes,  in  her  bed." 

He  spoke  in  a  voice  he  purposely  made  indifferent, 
and  began  to  examine  her;  it  was  better  to  change  the 
conversation.  Elise  was  at  that  moment  seized  with 
one  of  her  fits  of  pain.  Her  face  blanched,  her  mouth 
gaped  as  do  those  of  little  birds  when  they  are  dying. 
But  it  only  lasted  a  moment;  some  color  came  back, 
and  she  smiled.  He  auscultated  her,  his  ear  on  her 
heart,  his  face  grave.  Elise  was  no  longer  thinking 
of  herself,  for  the  baby  at  her  side  stirred  and  made 
little  noises  like  a  kitten  mewing. 

"It's  a  fine  child,  isn't  it?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  the  doctor,  "a  very  fine  child." 

He  gave  it  some  sugared  water.  The  whimper 
ceased.  You  only  heard  the  almost  imperceptible 
sound  of  the  uncertain  little  tongue  sucking  instinct- 
ively at  the  metal  spoon.  Elise  listened,  languid,  and 
very  happy.  He  went  out  into  the  passage,  and  the 
dressmaker  followed  him. 

"Is  she  going  on  all  right?"  she  asked. 

"Her  heart  is  not  sound,"  he  answered,  "and  she 
has  had  some  hemorrhage.  Beyond  that,  it's  just 
an  ordinary  confinement.  She'll  get  over  it  right 
enough  if  nothing  unforeseen  happens.  She  must  be 
kept  very  quiet,  no  emotion,  that's  all.  Better  not 
let  her  know  that  her  neighbor  is  dead  .  .  ." 

He  went  away  looking  up  his  next  visit  in  his; 
appointment-book.  The  doctors  of  the  poor  have 
not  much  time  to  lose,  especially  for  confinements 
paid  for  out  of  the  public  funds. 


232  NUMBER  THIRTEEN 

"Let  her  have  plenty  of  air.  Leave  the  door 
open,"  were  his  parting  words. 

Mademoiselle  Emmeline  came  back,  bringing  her 
work  with  her,  and  sitting  near  the  window  so  as  to 
get  as  much  light  as  possible,  for  the  daylight  was 
fading,  bent  her  head  over  her  sewing;  and  the  old 
maid  told  herself  that  there  were  many  compensa- 
tions for  never  having  had  anything  to  do  with  men. 
What  would  become  of  her,  this  Elise  Herminier? 
She  had  got  to  earn  her  living  by  going  out  cleaning; 
how  could  she  do  it  with  this  child,  that  she  refused 
to  abandon,  in  her  arms?  The  father  had  disap- 
peared: a  footman  in  a  house  where  she  had  worked 
occasionally,  who  had  left  his  place  and  disappeared 
so  as  to  avoid  the  responsibility.  Eternal  and  hack- 
neyed story! 

Elise  shut  her  eyes  and  tried  to  sleep.  She  had 
now  a  touch  of  fever,  and  was  shivering.  It  is  easy 
to  protect  rich  patients  and  those  who  are  looked 
after  in  hospitals  from  this;  but  with  poor  women, 
who  cling  tenaciously  to  tradition,  prejudice  and 
superstition,  and  insist  on  having  their  children  in 
their  own  homes  ...  it  is  not  possible.  Invisible 
and  dangerous  microbes,  left  by  sick  or  dirty  people, 
for  ever  lurk  about  these  neglected  habitations. 
They  penetrate  lungs  weakened  by  hardship,  poison 
the  morning  cup  of  milk,  contaminate  the  wound  of 
childbirth.  It  is  inevitable,  and  as  the  patient  does 
not  always  die,  the  state  of  affairs  continues. 

Slowly  a  kind  of  delirium  crept  through  Elise's 
brain.  It  took  the  form  of  terror,  for  the  laboring 
heart  affected  the  mind,  and  the  young  mother's  joy 
gave  way  to  fears  which  agonized  her,  and  in  their 


NUMBER  THIRTEEN  233 

turn  completed  the  vicious  circle  by  increasing  the 
palpitation.  Why  had  she  not  destroyed  this  germ 
that  was  now  a  man  and  wanted  to  live  ?  How  could 
she  support  him,  how  could  she  herself  live,  with 
him  to  look  after  and  keep  ?  Over  and  over  again 
she  counted  up  the  sums  she  could  earn  without  her 
weakened  brain  being  able  to  grasp  them ;  two  hours 
every  morning  at  Madame  Dodu's  at  threepence 
halfpenny  an  hour;  a  whole  day  every  Thursday  at 
Madame  Renou's.  On  Sundays,  alas,  nobody  wanted 
her.  Every  one  in  Paris  went  out  on  Sundays  now- 
adays, even  the  poorest  households.  No,  she  couldn't 
manage  it;  there  was  no  way  of  getting  money 
enough  for  the  two.  .  .  .  And  if  she  fell  ill?  .  .  . 
Then  it  would  be  immediate  starvation;  no  savings  to 
fall  back  on,  nothing  but  debt.  And  if  she  died? 
Ah!  She  was  going  to  die;  she  was  sure  of  it;  she 
was  going  to  die !  At  these  thoughts,  it  seemed  as 
if  her  heart  was  being  pinched,  twisted  round,  and 
it  beat  with  a  noise  like  that  of  a  drum  against  her 
chest.  She  was  dying!  She  could  see  herself,  all 
white,  wrapped  round  in  a  white  sheet  in  the  bottom 
of  a  coffin,  while  her  baby,  blue  with  hunger,  cried 
alone  in  bed. 


At  this  moment  two  undertaker's  men  passed  be- 
fore the  concierge's  lodge  in  the  courtyard  of  the 
house,  carrying  something  long  covered  with  black 
cloth. 

"It's  for  Madame  Granchet's  room,"  they  ex- 
plained. 

"The  back  stairs,  sixth  floor,  passage  to  the  right, 


234  NUMBER  THIRTEEN 

number  sixteen,"  said  the  concierge,  who  understood. 

They  went  up.  It  was  late.  They  had  been 
drinking.  At  the  top  of  the  staircase,  having  stopped 
to  take  breath,  they  turned  to  the  right,  and  one  of 
them  asked: 

"What  number  did  they  say  downstairs?" 

"Thirteen,"  replied  the  other. 

"Thirteen  or  sixteen?" 

The  other  hesitated: 

"Blowed  if  I  know  now.  Them  *  'teens,'  it's  easy 
to  mix  them  up !  ...  But  we  shall  see ;  the  door'll 
likely  be  open.  There'll  be  some  one  watching  the 
corpse." 

"It's  No.  13  right  enough.  The  door's  open, 
and  some  one's  there.  .  .  .  The  corpse  is  there,  too ; 
you  can  see  it." 

The  dressmaker  had  fallen  asleep  in  the  window, 
her  sewing  in  her  hand,  while,  in  the  shadow  thrown 
by  the  door,  Elise  Herminier  lay  stretched  out  full 
length  in  bed,  wrestling  with  the  terrifying  thoughts 
that  filled  her  weak  head. 

The  two  black-dressed  men  walked  slowly  in,  and 
with  deliberation  placed  their  burden  on  the  tiled 
floor. 

"Here's  the  coffin,"  they  announced  as  they 
straightened  themselves.  One  of  them  had  removed 
the  black  cloth,  and  the  other  held  the  screws  in 
his  hand. 

Elise  opened  her  eyes,  saw  the  men,  the  black 
cloth,  the  coffin,  and  the  screws.  The  coffin !  What ! 
Was  it  really  for  her?  What!  She  tried  to  cry 
out:  not  a  sound  came  from  her  mouth.  She  tried 
to  move:  not  a  stir;  she  was  paralyzed.  The  only 


NUMBER  THIRTEEN  235 

part  of  her  left  alive  was  her  heart,  which,  for  one 
second,  gave  her  atrocious  agony.  Then  nothing 
more.  The  dressmaker,  waking  up,  ran  to  her: 

"Madame  Elise !     Madame  Elise !" 

A  whimper  from  the  baby  was  the  only  answer. 


Thus  died  Elise  Herminier,  unmarried  mother. 


MARCEL  PREVOST 


MARCEL  PR£VOST,  born  in  1862  in  Paris,  and  educated  at  a 
Jesuit  school  at  Bordeaux,  was  in  the  Civil  Service  till  1890,  when 
he  began  to  devote  himself  exclusively  to  literature.  Since  then 
his  novels  and  stories,  dealing  for  the  most  part  with  feminine 
traits  and  moods,  have  acquired  international  distinction.  His 
penetrating  understanding  of  the  heart  and  mind  of  woman  is 
shown  in  a  lighter  way  in  various  volumes  of  Letters — Lettres 
de  Femme,  Nouvelles  Lettres  de  Femme,  Dernieres  Lettres  de 
Femme,  Lettres  ei  Franfoise,  etc.  "My  Brother  Guy"  is  taken 
from  Dernieres  Lettres  de  Femme. 


MY  BROTHER  GUY 


[From  MADAME  LAROCHE-THIEBAULT  (widow)  to 
MADAME  D'EPRUN] 

WHAT  is  the  latest  gossip  in  Bourges,  my  Col- 
ette? What's  been  happening  since  I  left  a 
week  ago?  Is  our  little  circle  of  madcaps  still  en- 
gaged in  scandalizing  the  moldy  provincial  town 
where  military  duties  and  arranged  marriages  have 
collected  them?  Has  the  olive-skinned  Comtesse  de 
Prenilly  unearthed  any  more  eighteenth-century 
songs,  whose  libertine  sentiments  come  sweetly  from 
her  pure  mouth?  Has  the  Colonel's  wife  succeeded 
in  getting  up  a  quarrel  with  the  nice  young  Second- 
Lieutenant  Saint  Remi,  fresh  from  Vaugirard? 
Do  our  men-friends  still  treat  you  as  if  they  were 
hussars;  and  you,  do  you  still  behave  as  if  you  were 
light  young  women  ?  What  a  stupid  place !  No  mat- 
ter how  one  tries  to  deceive  oneself,  what  efforts 
one  makes  to  persuade  oneself  that  one  is  having  a 
gay  time  there,  it  is  always  Bourges  the  Melancholy, 
asleep  in  the  shadow  of  its  cathedral.  ...  I  had 
had  enough,  so  much  too  much  of  the  good  town 
that  the  other  evening  I  took  the  last  train  for  Paris 
without  telling  any  one.  Hurrah,  for  the  indepen- 

239 


240  MY  BROTHER  GUY 

dence  of  widowhood!  Let  me  be  frank:  it  was  not 
only  boredom  that  I  ran  away  from.  I  had  been 
imprudent  enough  to  promise  a  rendezvous  for  next 
day  to  Captain  d'Exiles!  Yes,  at  my  house,  a  ren- 
dezvous .  .  .  And  though  that  sort  of  thing  seems 
charming  and  amusing  when  you  think  about  it  at  a 
safe  distance,  it's  very  different  when  the  moment 
comes  to  put  it  into  execution.  There's  nobody  at 
home!  Funny,  isn't  it?  I'd  rather  go  and  listen  to 
a  long  and  tedious  sermon.  I  imagine  we're  all  a  bit 
like  that.  Always  ready  to  talk  about  such  things, 
but  never  in  earnest  if  it  comes  to  doing  them. 

Well,  there  I  was  in  the  train,  rushing  towards 
Paris  in  the  darkness,  hugging  myself  with  joy  at 
the  thought  that  d'Exiles,  after  having  perfumed 
and  curled  himself,  and  generally  prepared  for  my 
conquest,  would  appear  smiling  at  the  door  of  my 
house  next  day.  In  imagination  I  saw  the  bland 
expression  on  the  face  of  Solange,  my  maid.  "Ma- 
dame requested  me  to  tell  Monsieur  le  Capitaine 
that  she  was  extremely  sorry.  .  .  .  Madame  has 
been  obliged  to  leave  for  Paris  to  see  her  brother 
.  .  .  family  affairs  .  .  ."  And  I  could  hear  the 
swear  words  uttered  by  Monsieur  le  Capitaine  as  he 
returned  to  barracks. 

The  men  of  his  company  would  probably  have 
rather  a  bad  time  of  it  on  parade  the  next  few  days ! 

There  was  some  truth  in  what  Solange  had  said. 
I  really  did  drive  straight  to  my  brother's  when  I 
got  to  Paris.  Guy  has  a  wonderful  flat  in  the  rue 
des  Ecuries-d'Artois,  and  its  arrangement  is  ...  a 
woman  of  really  good  taste  has  certainly  been  there; 
one,  or  several! 


MY  BROTHER  GUY  241 

When  I  was  leaving  Bourges  I  had  scribbled  off 
a  telegram:  "Expect  me  to-night  about  eleven 
o'clock."  It  was  striking  half-past  as  I  entered  his 
delightful  rooms.  Guy  was  in  his  dressing-room 
putting  the  last  touches  to  his  white  evening  tie  under 
the  anxious  scrutiny  of  his  valet. 

"What  on  earth  have  you  come  to  do  in  Paris  in 
such  a  hurry?"  he  said  to  me. 

"My  dear  Guy,  don't  scold  me,"  I  answered.  "I 
was  bored  to  death  in  Bourges." 

"There's  no  doubt  that  twelve  months  every  year 
at  Bourges  .  .  .  but  you  don't  mean  to  put  up  here, 
I  suppose?" 

"For  to-night,  yes  .  .  .  To-morrow  I  will  look 
out  for  rooms." 

Guy  seemed  to  be  taken  aback.  .  .  .  My  arrival 
was  evidently  disturbing  his  arrangements  for  the 
evening.  But  as  he  is  really  nice  and  very  fond  of 
his  younger  sister,  he  made  light  of  it. 

"Right;  that's  understood,  my  room  shall  be  got 
ready  for  you,  and  I  ...  I  will  sleep  somewhere 
else  ...  at  a  friend's.  .  .  .  But  I  warn  you  I  shall 
leave  you  to-night  for  supper." 

"Oh !  Guy  .  .  .  and  I  was  so  happy  .  .  .  Do  you 
mean  to  leave  me  all  alone  when  I  have  hardly  even 
arrived?" 

"I  can't  take  you  with  me.  I  am  going  into  a  set 
where  young  widows  are  not  admitted." 

His  valet  had  discreetly  withdrawn.  I  went  up 
to  Guy  and  said  with  a  smile : 

"Are  you  going  out  to  supper  with  some  young 
woman?" 

"Precisely." 


242  MY  BROTHER  GUY 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen?" 

"Only  one  man.  You  don't  know  him.  A  Rou- 
manian whom  I  met  at  Bucharest . .  .  Count  Ildescu." 

"And  who  are  the  young  ladies?" 

"Lucienne  d'Argenson,  Fanny  Love  and  la  belle 
Cordoba.  I  hope  you'll  believe  that  it's  not  for  my 
own  pleasure.  They  bore  me  to  death.  But  Ildescu 
was  set  on  knowing  them,  so  I  am  presenting  all 
three  of  them  together  to  stop  his  worrying  me  any 
more." 

"Well  .  .  .  take  me  with  you  .  .  ." 

I  didn't  leave  Guy  time  to  protest.  I  sat  down 
on  his  knee  and  wheedled  him;  I  explained  to  him 
that  I  was  in  exactly  the  same  position  as  Ildescu; 
that  Bourges  was  much  more  depressing  than  Bucha- 
rest, and  that  I,  too,  like  Ildescu,  was  dying  to  see 
Fanny  Love,  Lucienne  d'Argenson  and  la  belle  Cor- 
doba. 

"But  look  here,  this  is  rank  madness.  If  any  one 
were  to  recognize  you  .  .  ." 

"I  will  put  on  a  thick  veil  until  we  reach  the  pri- 
vate dining-room.  .  .  .  After  that  there  is  no  danger. 
Neither  your  friend  nor  these  young  ladies  have  ever 
seen  me." 

"But  perhaps  they  will  say  some  rather  risky 
things  ..." 

"Bah !  I  am  not  a  raw  young  girl.  .  .  .  Besides 
if  they  go  too  far  you  can  take  me  away." 

In  short,  as  time  was  flying,  and  I  would  not  give 
in,  Guy  let  himself  be  persuaded.  It  was  agreed 
that  I  should  pretend  to  be  a  young  amateur  from 
the  provinces,  a  friend  of  Guy's,  about  to  start  a 


MY  BROTHER  GUY  243 

career  in  Paris.  I  had  a  very  nice  evening-dress  in 
my  trunk,  and  I  dressed  myself  as  smartly  as  I  could: 
Guy  acted  as  my  lady's  maid.  My  idea  began  to 
amuse  him,  even  him. 

"By  Jove,"  he  said  to  me  when  I  was  ready, 
"you  look  a  jolly  sight  better  than  those  old  birds 
we  are  going  to  meet.  Ildescu  will  lose  his  head. 
Take  care !  He's  a  dangerous  fellow." 

We  were  to  have  supper  at  Joseph's;  the  time 
was  to  be  one  o'clock,  as  Fanny  Love  and  la  belle 
Cordoba  were  not  free  until  the  theaters  were  over. 
Count  Ildescu  had  undertaken  to  call  for  Lucienne 
d'Argenson  at  her  house.  We  arrived,  my  brother 
and  I,  a  quarter  of  an  hour  late — the  last. 

Oh !  that  look,  my  Colette !  the  triple  survey  of 
these  three  women  who  started  gauging  me,  judging 
me  from  the  moment  that  Guy  introduced  me  as 
"Mademoiselle  Renee  ...  of  Chatellerault  .  .  . 
who  has  just  arrived  in  Paris."  No  compliment  has 
ever  flattered  me  so  much  as  that  simultaneous  look 
of  antagonism  on  those  three  pretty  faces  ( for  really 
they  are  quite  lovely,  these  creatures),  and  the  an- 
noyance they  could  not  hide  at  finding  me  as  pretty 
as  they  were!  .  .  .  They  made  up  for  it  over  my 
toilette.  I  heard  them  making  fun  of  it,  whilst 
Ildescu,  already  very  much  taken  with  me,  was  over- 
whelming me  with  politenesses. 

To  tell  the  truth,  they  were  more  fashionably 
dressed  than  I  was,  and  would  you  believe  it,  just  as 
correctly,  with  a  refined  and  sober  elegance,  in  per- 
fect taste  .  .  .  We  sat  down  to  supper :  I  was  placed 
between  Ildescu  and  Mile.  d'Argenson.  Supper  be- 


244  MY  BROTHER  GUY 

gan.  I  drank  two  glasses  of  champagne  straight 
off,  and  immediately  I  felt  at  my  ease  and  prepared 
to  listen  to  anything. 

At  first  they  spoke  about  the  theaters.  Fanny 
Love  and  la  belle  Cordoba  gave  us  their  impressions 
of  contemporary  dramatic  art:  they  seemed  to  me  to 
be  much  better  informed  and  hardly  more  shallow- 
minded  than  the  ladies  of  our  aristocracy.  Then 
Lucienne  d'Argenson  launched  forth  into  her  ideas 
about  society,  the  life  of  the  smart  set  and  the  reduc- 
tion of  incomes:  in  twenty  years,  she  said,  there 
would  be  no  rich  people  left  in  Paris.  I  recognized 
the  last  sentence  from  having  heard  it  uttered  several 
times  by  the  wife  of  our  chief  treasurer.  Guy  lis- 
tened gravely  to  it  all,  and  answered  in  the  same  way. 
But  Ildescu  ...  he  began  whispering  nonsense  into 
my  ear,  and  I  assure  you  there  is  a  great  deal  of 
difference  between  his  nonsense  and  the  common- 
places of  Monsieur  d'Exiles  or  young  Saint  Renii, 
or  any  of  our  friends!  He  limited  himself  to  re- 
marks on  my  personal  appearance,  and  was  most 
persistent  in  his  admiration;  and  I,  I  made  a  mental 
comparison  between  my  own  physical  attractions  and 
those  of  the  three  others,  and  I  really  felt  proud  of 
his  preference. 

"Up  to  the  present,  anyway,"  I  thought  to  myself, 
"it's  been  as  dull  as  a  family  party !  Evidently  I  am 
a  wet  blanket  I  They  think  I'm  provincial,  and  silly 
at  that.  I'll  put  them  at  their  ease." 

So  I  drank  another  glass  of  champagne,  and  told 
them  that  nice  little  story  of  yours,  the  one  we  all 
liked  so  much  when  you  told  it  at  dinner  at  the 
Colonel's  the  other  night;  you  know  the  one  about 


MY  BROTHER  GUY  245 

the  tell-tale  confetti.  Oh,  my  Colette!  if  only  you 
could  have  seen  the  expression  on  the  faces  of  those 
three  young  ladies!  They  pretended  they  did  not 
understand  it!  And  the  disdainful  remarks  they 
made  to  each  other  when  I  had  finished!  Guy,  red 
as  a  poppy,  thought  it  right  to  make  excuses  for  me 
to  his  neighbor,  Fanny  Love :  "You  see  she  doesn't 
quite  understand.  .  .  .  Later  on  she'll  have  learnt 
how  to  behave  .  .  ."  But  Ildescu,  he  laughed  with 
all  his  heart:  "Ah!  how  funny!  very  funny!  very 
amusing !  very  Parisian !  she  is  adorable !"  And  sud- 
denly I  felt  his  knee  trying  to  enter  into  conversation 
with  mine  under  the  table.  That  worried  me;  I 
don't  approve  of  gentlemen  giving  themselves  such 
privileges  without  asking  permission !  But  I  reflected 
that  it  was  perhaps  just  part  of  the  performance,  and 
that  if  I  protested,  they  would  guess  that  I  didn't 
belong  to  the  profession.  So  Ildescu  did  not  meet 
with  more  resistance  than  was  necessary,  till  sud- 
denly we  heard  the  shrill  voice  of  Fanny  Love 
exclaiming,  as  she  rapped  Guy  sharply  over  the 
knuckles  with  her  fan: 

"Tell  me,  my  dear  man,  will  it  be  long  before 
you've  finished  spoiling  my  dress  with  your  feet? 
Where  do  you  think  you  are?  At  Chatellerault?" 

"At  Chatellerault" — that  was  for  me.  I  under- 
stood, and  quickly  shrank  into  myself  much  to  the 
regret  of  Ildescu,  who  rolled  his  fine  black  eyes  with 
surprise  and  disappointment.  .  .  .  Supper  came  to 
an  end  almost  in  silence :  Lucienne  and  la  belle  Cor- 
doba were  the  only  ones  who  talked;  and  they  dis- 
coursed about  gold-mines.  We  left  about  half-past 
two.  The  three  ladies  bid  me  the  coldest  of  good- 


246  MY  BROTHER  GUY 

bys.  They  were  seen  into  their  cars:  Ildescu  was 
quite  determined  to  accompany  me. 

"Hold  on,  my  dear  chap,"  said  Guy.  "I'm  going 
to  see  Madame  home." 

Poor  Roumanian  Count!  He  looked  so  down- 
cast I  let  him  squeeze  my  fingers  as  long  as  he  liked 
when  we  shook  hands. 

As  soon  as  I  was  alone  with  Guy  in  his  coupe,  I 
made  a  scene. 

"You  will  never  get  me  to  believe  this  is  one  of 
your  ordinary  supper-parties,  what  you  call  having  a 
good  time !  You  told  those  three  sirens  who  I  was, 
and  the  whole  thing  was  spoilt.  And  I  should  have 
enjoyed  myself  so  much  I" 

He  defended  himself  with  energy: 

"I  give  you  my  word  that  all  our  little  parties  are 
very  much  like  this  one.  Now  and  again  a  quarrel 
or  an  attack  of  nerves — that's  the  most  exciting 
thing  that  ever  happens  .  .  .  otherwise,  'having  a 
good  time'  is  just  what  you've  seen.  Amusing,  isn't 
it?  But  what  would  you  have  us  do?  One  must 
pass  the  evenings  somehow." 

"But  surely  they  are  not  always  as  ...  proper, 
these  young  ladies?  ...  I  suppose  that  when  you 
are  alone  together  .  .  ." 

"Ah!"  replied  Guy  smiling,  "naturally,  when  you 
are  alone  with  them,  it's  quite  another  matter.  For 
them,  that's  work — work  they're  paid  for;  and  they 
take  good  care  not  to  work  for  nothing  in  off- 
hours  .  .  .  For  these  women,  'Love'  is  business." 

It  seemed  to  me  that  this  explanation  of  my 
brother  Guy  was  worth  thinking  about,  and  when 
I  was  in  bed,  I  meditated  long  on  it.  And  I  can 


MY  BROTHER  GUY  247 

assure  you,  my  Colette,  that  my  thoughts  were  of 
extreme  morality.  There  can't  be  much  amusement 
in  having  to  go  through  love-scenes  with  any  sort  of 
Ildescu  who  happens  to  sit  next  you  at  supper !  Poor 
women !  And  to  think  that  other  women  sometimes 
almost  envy  them!  How  well  I  understand  now 
their  playing  the  part  of  decent  women  when  they're 
not  at  business,  just  as  we  others  play  at  being  gay 
women  in  our  leisure  in  the  provinces  1 


I'm  going  back  to  Bourges  next  Tuesday.  My 
regards  to  Monsieur  d'Exiles.  He  is  decidedly 
preferable  to  the  Roumanian.  Talking  of  the  Rou- 
manian, what  do  you  think?  When  I  opened  the 
Journal  this  morning  I  came  across  this  in  the  per- 
sonal column: 

"A  young  man,  dark,  rich,  having  supped  at 
Joseph's  with  a  delightful  person  from  Chatellerault 
is  very  anxious  to  see  her  again. — I." 

"I."  must  be  Ildescu ! 

So  of  the  four  of  us,  Fanny  Love,  Cordoba, 
d'Argenson  and  I,  it  was  I  who  "got"  the  Rouman- 
ian— I,  the  amateur! 


MICHEL  PROVINS  is  the  author  of  several  novels  and  a  dozen 
plays.  He  is  very  fond  of  the  story  in  dialogue,  and  there  are 
several  volumes  of  collected  tales  in  this  form.  Our  example, 
"Gossip,"  comes  from  a  book  called  Dialogues  d 'Amour. 


XXVI 

"GOSSIP" 
[By  MICHEL  PROVINS 

Aix-les-Bains.  Place:  The  Gardens  of  the 
Villa  des  Fleurs.  Time:  The  hour  when  peo- 
ple lounge  about  and  watch  each  other;  the  hour  for 
flirtation  and  the  display  of  costumes;  the  hour  when 
the  hot-bed  of  society  produces  its  most  poisonous 
scandals. 

On  the  lawns  with  their  mosaic  of  geraniums  there 
is  the  flutter  of  sensational  toilettes,  the  clash  of 
discordant  colors,  the  glitter  of  jewels  in  the  full 
sunlight,  all  the  carnival  of  luxury  and  pleasure  that 
too  often  cloaks  lies  and  infirmities. 

In  the  bandstand  an  orchestra  is  playing  a  senti- 
mental waltz  of  the  erotico-Wagnerian  kind. 

One  of  the  groups  is  particularly  animated.  La 
Brette — the  well-informed  man-of-the-world — is  lay- 
ing down  the  law  with  an  assurance  born  of  complete 
vacuity  of  mind,  and  he  is  being  listened  to  with 
great  attention  by  the  cosmopolitan  men  and  women 
who  surround  him. 

DE  LYEUSE.  I  say,  La  Brette,  you  know  every- 
body; who  is  that  pretty  woman  over  there,  walking 
with  the  man  in  the  pepper-and-salt  suit? 

LA  BRETTE  (looking}.  That  is  the  beautiful 
Madame  Deguerny,  the  mistress  of  Rambert. 

251 


252  "GOSSIP" 

MADAME  AREGGIO.  What,  Rambert,  the  ex- 
Minister? 

LA  BRETTE.  Himself!  .  .  .  the  powerful  ora- 
tor; the  great  man  of  the  Central  Party.  He  never 
leaves  her. 

MADAME  DE  ST.  LEGER  (peering  through  her  lor- 
gnettes] .  A  little  coarse,  the  favored  one. 

LA  BRETTE.  What  do  you  expect?  For  a  man 
who  started  life  in  clogs,  son  of  a  workman  .  .  . 

MADAME  AREGGIO  (still  peering}.  I  imagined 
him  to  be  a  younger  man. 

LA  BRETTE.  Forty-six.  Fifteen  years  older  than 
.  .  .  his  friend  .  .  . 

DE  LYEUSE.    Is  there  a  Monsieur  Deguerny? 

VAREUIL.  Very  much  so  ...  one  of  our  young- 
est and  most  highly-placed  officials.  Legion  d'Hon- 
neur  and  Head  of  his  Department  .  .  .  and  all  in 
ten  years. 

LA  BRETTE  (with  a  supercilious  smile).  The 
exact  time  the  liaison  has  lasted. 

DE  LYEUSE.  And  how  long  have  they  been  mar- 
ried? 

LA  BRETTE.    Just  eleven  years. 

MADAME  AREGGIO.  Good  heavens!  Then  he, 
the  husband,  must  be  shutting  his  eyes  to  it. 

LA  BRETTE.  One  never  can  tell.  Fate  sometimes 
afflicts  husbands  with  sublime  blindness  .  .  .  But  in 
this  case  it  is  difficult  to  believe  it.  Rambert's  inti- 
macy is  so  close,  and  the  favors  he  bestows  so  noto- 
rious. 

VAREUIL.  But,  all  the  same,  Deguerny  is  looked 
upon  as  a  man  of  remarkable  talent  in  his  depart- 
ment. 


"GOSSIP"  253 

LA  BRETTE.  Yes  .  .  .  Very  well  up  in  his  sub- 
ject. Very  stern,  and  a  stickler  for  the  virtues. 
Always  a  good  pose  for  a  man  in  his  ...  conjugal 
position. 

VAREUIL.  Excuse  me,  you  speak  of  this  as  if  it 
were  a  matter  of  public  notoriety;  is  it  so? 

LA  BRETTE.  Of  course  it  is.  Everybody  knows 
it  just  as  everybody  knows  that  the  Arc  de  Triomphe 
is  at  the  top  of  the  Champs  Elysees  .  .  .  Ask  in 
any  drawing-room  in  Paris  "Who  is  Madame  De- 
guerny?"  and  you  will  be  told:  "The  mistress  of 
Rambert." 

VAREUIL.  But  you  have  seen  it?  (LA  BRETTE 
does  not  grasp  his  meaning.}  Yes,  have  you  seen 
this  adultery  for  which  you  vouch  so  categorically? 

LA  BRETTE  ( taken  aback).  I've  never  been  called 
in  to  watch  it!  ...  (general  laughter)  but  as  I 
have  heard  it  talked  about  for  ten  years  .  .  . 

VAREUIL.  There  are  many  calumnies  that  have 
been  current  for  longer  than  that. 

LA  BRETTE.  Agreed  .  .  .  but  if  you  had  watched 
the  trio  as  closely  as  I  have  .  .  . 

DE  LYEUSE.     What?     Do  you  know  Deguerny? 

LA  BRETTE  (blandly).  Do  I  know  him?  .  .  . 
Why,  Deguerny  and  I  were  at  college  together,  and 
I  dine  with  them  once  a  week. 

VAREUIL  (sarcastically).  I  thought  from  the 
way  you  talked  that  you  must  be  an  intimate  friend 
of  his. 


Coming  back  together  from  the  other  side  of  the 
garden.  Aline  Deguerny  and  Rambert  run  the  gaunt- 


254  "GOSSIP" 

let  of  another  group  that  is  discussing  them,  the 
young  woman  being  too  pretty  and  the  man  too  cele- 
brated to  avoid  provoking  ill-natured  criticism. 

ALINE  (sitting  down}.     Did  you  hear? 

RAMBERT  (irritably}.  Yes,  the  eternal  poisonous 
and  silly  remarks!  What  vile  minds  most  people 
have  .  .  .  always  beginning  by  imputing  evil  mo- 
tives, and  never  conceding  that  any  one  else  can  have 
a  pure  or  disinterested  one.  Intimacy?  Then  adul- 
tery. Riches  and  success?  Gained  by  compromise, 
blackmail  or  unfair  bargaining.  That's  their  stand- 
ard of  judgment.  As  for  admitting  that  there  could 
be  pure  friendship  between  a  man  and  a  woman,  that 
would  be  too  simple  and  too  beautiful  a  thought  to 
enter  their  heads  .  .  .  the  distillers  of  poison  would 
get  nothing  out  of  it ! 

ALINE.  Don't  pay  any  attention  to  them.  We 
inspire  too  much  envy  in  people  like  that  for  them  to 
spare  us.  You  are  a  distinguished  man,  head  and 
shoulders  above  the  others,  and  I  am  a  woman  of 
independent  character,  disdaining  hypocritical  preju- 
dices and  senseless  conventions;  I  don't  associate 
with  many  women;  I  talk  to  the  men  as  if  they  were 
comrades;  I  dress  well,  and  I  go  about  openly  with 
you !  It's  more  than  enough  to  make  them  flay  us 
alive. 

RAMBERT.  But  you  are  forgetting  the  last  cause 
for  a  chorus  of  calumnies — the  promotion  that  is 
entirely  due  to  your  husband's  qualities. 

ALINE.  Oh,  let  them  lie!  Let  them  chatter  as 
they  like.  How  can  their  inventions  affect  us?  We 
know  the  truth,  and  that  is  enough. 

RAMBERT.     Do  you  really  believe  that  that  is 


"GOSSIP"  255 

enough?  (A  movement  of  surprise  from  Aline.) 
Yes,  every  time  I  hear  an  echo  of  what  they  say 
about  us,  I  wonder  if  we  are  right  to  defy  public 
opinion.  In  spite  of  how  much  I  should  miss  you, 
perhaps  it  would  be  better  not  to  see  you  so  often, 
not  to  appear  so  intimate  with  you,  or  go  so  often 
to  your  house. 

ALINE.  And  you  really  think  that  would  stop 
their  yapping  out  their  famous:  "The  beautiful 
Madame  Deguerny,  the  mistress  of  Rambert"  ? 

RAMBERT.  In  time  they  would  forget  to  say  it. 
.  .  .  Yes,  I  am  beginning  to  believe  that  I  shall 
have  to  keep  away  from  you,  for  your  sake  .  .  .  for 
your  husband's. 

ALINE.  But  I  tell  you  it  doesn't  matter  at  all 
to  me.  As  for  George  .  .  . 

RAMBERT.  Do  you  think  he  knows  what  they 
say? 

ALINE.  I  think  so  ...  It  is  such  common  talk 
.  .  .  But  as  he  is  highly  intelligent,  very  just,  adores 
me,  likes  you,  and  is  quite  sure  of  us  both,  he  at- 
taches no  importance  to  it.  He  is  not  the  kind  of 
man  who  would  mention  it  to  me;  if  he  knows,  he  is 
silent  because  he  would  think  it  beneath  his  dignity 
to  allude  to  it. 

RAMBERT.  But  suppose  he  knows  nothing  of 
those  libels,  and  should  hear  them  suddenly  by  chance 
or  from  some  motive  of  revenge  ?  Might  it  not  have 
an  extraordinary  effect  on  a  character  like  his?  He 
is  so  straightforward — so  rigid.  Wouldn't  it  be 
better  and  safer  to  prepare  him  by  telling  him  just 
how  things  are? 

ALINE   (almost  angry).     What?    Tell  him  the 


256  "GOSSIP" 

whole  story?  Betray  Mother?  Surely  you  realize 
that  we  can't  explain  without  sacrificing  her  honor? 
Impossible. 

RAMBERT.  Humiliating  for  you  and  for  me,  but 
not  impossible. 

ALINE.  But  Mother?  Are  you  forgetting  our 
promise  to  her?  Is  it  possible  to  break  a  promise 
made  to  a  dying  person? 

RAMBERT.  I  am  not  forgetting  anything,  there- 
fore I  remember  that  she  added:  "Unless  your  happi- 
ness is  at  stake." 

ALINE.  That's  true.  (A  pause,  then  reflecting.) 
What  an  extraordinary  scene.  I  was  only  thirteen, 
but  every  time  I  think  of  it  I  can  see  it  all  as  clearly 
as  if  it  were  before  me.  I  can  hear  Mother's  voice, 
the  slow,  faint  voice  of  the  dying:  "Aline,  my  dar- 
ling, you  will  be  all  alone.  ...  I  must  tell  you  .  .  . 
I  must  confess  my  sin  ...  the  only  great  sin  of  my 
life.  .  .  .  Lucien" — you  were  kneeling  close  beside 
me — "Lucien  Rambert  is  your  brother  .  .  .  yes  .  .  . 
yes  .  .  .  your  brother  .  .  .  his  father,  our  late  em- 
ployee, the  manager  at  the  works,  was  my  lover  .  .  . 
and  you  are  his  daughter  ...  so  Lucien  is  your 
brother  .  .  .  they  are  both  dead,  your  real  father 
and  the  other  .  .  .  and  I  am  dying  too  .  .  .  Are  you 
listening,  Lucien?  Remember  what  I  say  .  .  .  you 
owe  all  you  are  and  will  be  to  me.  ...  I  have  paid 
for  your  education  .  .  .  your  start  in  life  .  .  .  you 
will  become  a  man  of  note  .  .  .  take  care  of  your 
sister  ...  my  Aline  .  .  .  she  will  have  no  one  but 
you.  .  .  .  Love  him,  Aline,  and  trust  him  .  .  .  your 
love  for  him  will  absolve  me  of  my  sin  .  .  ."  Poor 
little  Mother!  . 


"GOSSIP"  257 

RAMBERT  (taking  her  hand).  And  have  I  not 
done  all  I  could  to  fulfil  my  promise  ? 

ALINE.  Indeed  you  have.  You  have  been  won- 
derfully good  to  me.  There  was  hardly  any  money 
left,  and  you  smoothed  everything  for  me,  and  when 
you  became  rich  and  powerful,  you  gave  me  a  dowry 
and  arranged  my  marriage  .  .  .  And  you  think  we 
can  tell  George  this  after  having  hidden  it  from  him 
all  these  years? 

RAMBERT.    Why  not?    He  would  understand  .  .  . 

ALINE.  Would  he?  Understand  our  silence  and 
the  way  we  have  deceived  him?  He  believes  he 
married  the  legitimate  daughter  of  my  mother,  with 
a  fortune  of  her  own.  Why  risk  such  a  test  when  it's 
not  necessary  to  do  so?  Time  enough  if  it  ever  be- 
comes impossible  to  avoid  it  . 

RAMBERT.    Perhaps  you  are  right. 

ALINE.  I'm  certain  I  am.  The  years  go  by 
quietly  and  happily,  and  the  past  is  dead.  Don't 
let  us  risk  spoiling  the  present.  .  .  .  And  there  is 
something  very  charming  in  this  long  complicity  of 
affection,  in  being  brother  and  sister  and  appearing 
to  be  lovers.  .  .  .  Suppose  we  told  our  story,  do 
you  know  what  people  would  say  ? 

RAMBERT.    Se  non  e  vero,  e  ben'  trovato?  .  .  . 

ALINE.  Exactly!  They  wouldn't  believe  us,  so 
what  would  be  the  good? 

RAMBERT.  Yes,  you're  right.  Let  us  continue 
to  live  our  lives  our  own  way,  fixing  our  thoughts 
on  beautiful  things.  .  .  .  Look,  little  sister,  at  those 
mountains !  Aren't  they  wonderful,  all  tinged  with 
the  heliotrope  and  gold  of  the  evening  light?  How 
beautiful  nature  is  . 


258  "GOSSIP" 

ALINE.     And  how  different  from  the  mind  of 


man 


In  a  quiet  part  of  the  garden,  Deguerny,  who  has 
been  waiting  half-an-hour  for  the  opportunity,  sud- 
denly appears  before  La  Brette  as  he  comes  out  of 
the  gambling-rooms. 

DEGUERNY  (very  pale,  but  master  of  himself}. 
I've  been  looking  for  you.  I've  got  something  to 
say  to  you. 

LA  BRETTE  (taken  aback  by  Deguerny's  tone). 
To  me?  .  .  .  What's  the  matter?  .  .  .  Anything 
wrong?  .  .  . 

DEGUERNY.  I  was  passing  behind  those  shrubs 
some  time  ago;  you  were  talking  loudly  to  a  dozen 
people,  and  I  heard  you  say,  "the  beautiful  Madame 
Deguerny,  the  mistress  of  Rambcrt." 

LA  BRETTE  (stammering).  You  didn't  catch  the 
words  properly. 

DEGUERNY.  Don't  lie !  La  Brette  (going  close 
to  him  and  speaking  in  icy  tones)  what  you  said 
was  either  an  infamous  lie  for  which  you  shall  give 
me  satisfaction;  or  else  the  fact  is  so  well-known 
that  you,  my  friend,  repeated  it  without  realizing 
that  it  was  a  cowardly  betrayal.  Which  is  it?  ... 
In  the  latter  case,  I  shall  not  hold  you  responsible 
...  I  shall  leave  you  to  pass  judgment  on  yourself. 

LA  BRETTE  (at  his  wits'  end,  and  playing  for 
time}.  Listen  to  me  ... 

DEGUERNY.  I  want  no  explanations.  It  is  one 
thing  or  the  other  .  .  .  Answer  me !  As  you  see,  I 
am  quite  calm,  and  I  swear  that  no  one  but  myself 


"GOSSIP"  259 

shall  suffer  for  what  you  are  going  to  tell  me  ... 
You  see  you  are  free  to  tell  the  truth. 

LA  BRETTE  (to  himself).  Is  he  in  earnest?  What 
does  he  really  mean? 

DEGUERNY  (threatening).  Answer  me!  Did 
you  invent  this? 

LA  BRETTE  (stupefied).  You  are  forcing  me  into 
an  awful  position.  I  admit  I  have  been  tactless, 
foolish  .  .  .  but  you  know  how  it  is  when  you  get 
talking  .  .  .  you  let  yourself  go,  you  repeat  things 
without  reflecting,  without  any  thought  of  evil  .  .  . 

DEGUERNY  (growing  still  paler).  "Repeat 
things" — then  people  do  say  that  Madame  De- 
guerny  is  the  mistress  of  Rambert?  Do  they  say 
that? 

LA  BRETTE  (cowering).  I  am  not  responsible 
for  other  people,  and — yes — they  do  say  that! 

DEGUERNY  (trembling).     Since  when? 

LA  BRETTE  (not  knowing  what  to  say).  That  is 
going  too  far. 

DEGUERNY.  Too  far?  Then  I'll  get  corrobora- 
tion.  (He  sees  DE  LYEUSE  -who  is  passing  by,  and 
whom  he  does  not  know,  and  raises  his  voice) .  Ex- 
cuse me,  Sir  .  .  . 

LA  BRETTE  (springing  forward  to  prevent  con- 
versation). No! 

DEGUERNY.  You  see  ...  you  are  certain  of  his 
reply;  of  the  answer  of  the  first  passer-by,  even  here 
in  the  country  .  .  .  But  you?  .  .  .  You  who  saw  me 
every  day,  who  saw  Aline  and  Rambert,  what  did 
you  think  of  them,  of  me? 

LA  BRETTE  (imbecile).    I  thought  you  knew  .  .  . 


260  "GOSSIP" 

either  you  were  sure  there  was  nothing,  or  you  knew 
and  were  making  the  best  of  it. 

DEGUERNY  (bursting  into  a  nervous  laugh  that 
sounds  more  like  the  agonized  cry  of  a  tortured 
soul).  How  well  you  understand  my  character! 
Naturally  I  have  been  making  the  best  of  it  ... 
I  only  wanted  to  make  you  talk !  .  .  . 

LA  BRETTE  (at  a  loss  to  understand,  watches  him 
uneasily  as  he  tears  a  page  from  a  pocket-book  and 
begins  writing  on  it).  What  are  you  going  to  do? 

DEGUERNY  (quite  master  of  himself  again).  A 
little  joke  ...  a  surprise!  .  .  .  It's  better  to  laugh 
than  to  be  angry,  isn't  it?  (Continues  to  write.) 
You  will  deliver  this  little  note  to  my  wife  this  eve- 
ning. I  shall  not  be  in  to  dinner. 

LA  BRETTE.    Where  are  you  going? 

DEGUERNY.    For  a  row  on  the  lake. 

LA  BRETTE.    As  late  as  this?  .  .  .  alone? 

DEGUERNY.  Yes,  alone.  Evening  on  the  lake — 
nothing  like  it  for  refreshing  your  mind.  (Having 
finished  writing,  he  folds  the  paper  and  hands  it  to 
him.)  There!  .  .  .  Give  it  to  Aline  .  .  .  but  not 
before  ten  o'clock,  otherwise  it  won't  fit  in  with  the 
little  surprise  I  wish  to  give  her  .  .  .  Good  evening ! 
(And  before  La  Brette  has  time  to  muster  his  wits 
or  utter  a  word,  he  has  reached  the  street  and  dis- 
appeared. ) 


•* 


Well  before  the  appointed  time,  but  already  too 
late,  La  Brette  meets  Aline  and  Rambert  together  in 
the  hotel.  They  are  both  feeling  anxious  about  the 
inexplicable  absence  of  Deguerny.j 


"GOSSIP"  261 

LA  BRETTE  (delivering  the  note).  From  your 
husband. 

ALINE  (amazed).  What?  ...  A  letter?  .  .  . 
(Opening  it.)  "My  dear  Aline,  as  you  have  been 
the  mistress  of  Rambert  so  long,  why  not  become 
his  wife?"  (At  the  exclamation  that  seems  to  tear 
her  throat,  Rambert  rushes  forward  and  reads  out 
loud  with  her,  oblivious  of  the  presence  of  LA 
BRETTE.)  "By  the  time  you  get  this  note,  it  will 
be  useless  to  look  for  me.  I  am  going  where  nobody 
can  find  me.  I  did  not  wish  to  see  you  again  because 
I  love  you  too  dearly,  because  never  having  suspected 
how  things  were,  I  should,  in  spite  of  all  evidence  to 
the  contrary,  be  too  afraid  of  believing  your  denials. 
By  disappearing,  I  absolve  myself  in  public  opinion 
from  the  sin  of  my  supposed  complaisance,  and  I  give 
you  a  chance  of  rehabilitating  yourself.  Thank  you 
for  the  illusion  of  happiness  you  have  given  me  .  .  . 
and  as  I  shall  no  longer  be  alive  to  suffer,  I  forgive 
you." 

Overwhelmed  by  the  suddenness  of  the  tragedy, 
the  brother  and  sister  look  at  each  other  in  silence, 
trembling;  then  impelled  by  the  instinct  that  makes 
human  beings  seek  consolation  in  moments  of  mental 
anguish  in  physical  contact,  Aline  throws  herself  into 
the  arms  Rambert  instinctively  holds  out  to  her. 

LA  BRETTE  (thunderstruck,  his  despicable  brain 
incapable  of  seeing  anything  but  confirmation  of  the 
scandal  in  this  action).  My  God!  Talk  about 
shamelessness !  (Then  hurrying  away  to  have  the 
pleasure  of  being  the  first  to  spread  the  savory 
news.)  And  men  will  kill  themselves  for  the  sake  of 
women ! 


J.  H.  ROSNY,  alne 


J.  H.  ROSNY,  aini,  born  in  1856,  generally  writes  in  collabora- 
tion with  his  brother  Justin,  but  is  celebrated  personally  for  work 
dealing  with  prehistoric  times.  He  has  not  confined  himself  to 
those  periods,  however,  and  has  produced  studies  of  anarchist 
and  literary  centers,  English  customs,  etc.  The  story  we  give 
here,  "The  Champion,"  suggested  by  himself  for  this  volume, 
appears  in  a  volume  called  Les  Profundeurs  de  Kyamo. 


XXVI 

THE  CHAMPION 
By  J.  H.  ROSNY,  aine 


\  \  7"E  were  chaffing  the  philosophic  Saverre  about 
V  V  being  so  tremendously  keen  on  athletics.  Per- 
sonally, he  is  delicate,  almost  puny,  all  brain  and 
no  body  to  speak  of;  but  he  finds  an  extraordinary 
pleasure  in  witnessing  any  notable  match — wrestling, 
boxing,  fencing,  or  even  a  trial  of  mere  physical 
strength.  He  takes  in  all  the  sporting  papers, 
knows  the  best  boxers  in  France  and  England,  the 
crack  swordsmen,  the  famous  toreadors.  He  let  us 
have  our  laugh  out,  and  then  told  us  the  origin  of 
these  predilections  so  foreign  to  his  temperament 
and  physique. 

"My  father,"  he  said,  "was  a  poor  man,  a  wid- 
ower, whom  a  series  of  misfortunes  had  obliged  to 
take  a  small  post  as  accountant  in  a  chemical  manu- 
factory in  a  remote  country  district.  This  employ- 
ment, obtained  after  long  months  of  application, 
was  not  very  exacting,  but  was  poorly  remunerated. 
But  he  was  only  too  pleased  to  get  it;  deeply  em- 
barrassed as  he  was,  he  aspired  to  nothing  better, 
and  ''had  no  anxiety  now  but  the  fear  of  losing  it. 
[The  village  of  S — — -*,  where  we  had  to  take  up  our 

265 


266  THE  CHAMPION 

abode,  is  a  comfortless,  desolate,  unhealthy  place 
surrounded  by  a  barren  moor.  The  inhabitants, 
quarrelsome  and  ill-conditioned,  have  rude  ag- 
gressive manners,  and  are  by  no  means  prepossessed 
in  favor  of  strangers.  My  father  was  the  less  wel- 
come inasmuch  as  his  position  as  a  poor  gentleman 
alienated  him  alike  from  the  peasants  and  the  gentry 
proper.  He  recognized  this  from  the  first,  and  de- 
termined to  occupy  himself  wholly  with  his  business 
and  to  avoid  every  one.  As  for  myself,  regarded 
as  I  was  with  no  good-will  by  the  children  of  the 
village,  I  thought  it  best  not  to  mix  with  them,  nor 
indeed  to  venture  far  beyond  the  limits  of  our  pine- 
wood  dwelling.  Some  months  passed;  and  in  spite 
of  these  discordant  elements,  the  uprightness  and 
kindliness  of  my  father,  and  a  certain  light-hearted- 
ness  which  I  possessed  at  that  time  of  my  life,  pro- 
cured us  a  few  acquaintances.  We  were  neither 
happy  nor  miserable.  My  father  was  fond  of  gar- 
dening; and  I,  already  of  a  contemplative  turn  of 
mind,  was  content  enough  to  dream  on  waysides  or 
on  the  skirt  of  the  little  wood  that  bordered  our 
cottage.  Two  or  three  times  a  week  I  joined  in 
some  children's  games,  and  came  off  without  more 
fisticuffs  than  might  be  anticipated. 

"But  on  a  certain  day  this  existence  became  intol- 
erable on  account  of  a  family  which  came  to  settle 
in  the  village,  having  inherited  some  acres  of  grass- 
land, and  whose  children  took  part  in  our  sports. 
One  of  these,  a  boy  of  twelve,  thick-set,  nimble,  with 
little,  fierce,  piercing  eyes,  revealed  at  once  all  the 
characteristics  of  a  tyrant.  In  a  dispute  on  the 
bowling-green,  he  decided  in  his  own  favor  the  posi- 


THE  CHAMPION  267 

tion  of  a  ball  which  we  all  thought  open  to  question. 
One  of  us  having  protested  rather  angrily,  he 
knocked  him  down  with  a  blow  on  the  nose;  after 
which  he  challenged  us  with  savage  effrontery  to 
fight.  We  were  intimidated:  the  boldest  looked  at 
one  another  doubtfully.  However,  urged  on  by  all 
of  us,  Robert  Dubourg,  indubitably  the  strongest 
and  pluckiest  of  our  party,  at  last  accepted  the  chal- 
lenge. Alas,  the  battle  was  soon  over.  In  less  than 
no  time  the  new-comer  had  settled  our  champion 
and  beaten  him  to  pulp.  From  that  time  the  young 
tyrant  completely  dominated  us  by  his  bluster  and 
brutality.  The  matter  went  so  far  that  one  day  the 
father  of  one  of  us,  a  powerful  man,  whose  offspring 
had  been  brought  home  covered  with  blood,  went 
to  demand  satisfaction  from  the  father  of  the 
assailant. 

"It  was  a  day  in  October — how  well  I  can  remem- 
ber every  detail  of  the  scene — a  fine  warm  morning, 
a  little  overcast.  The  man  stood  before  the  door 
of  the  new-comer's  little  farm  shaking  his  fist  and 
swearing,  and  at  last  gave  a  furious  knock.  In- 
stantly the  door  opened,  and  there  appeared  a 
peasant  of  moderate  height  with  the  little,  fierce, 
piercing  eyes  of  his  son.  He  had  also  the  same  look 
of  savage  strength. 

'  'What  do  you  want?'  he  said  in  a  husky  voice. 

"  'I  want  to  give  your  son  a  hiding  for  what  he 
has  done  to  mine.' 

"  'Yours  ought  to  have  looked  out  for  himself.' 

"  'Yours  will  come  to  the  scaffold.' 

"  'Say  that  again ' 

"Davesne's  face,  coarse,  malignant,  determined, 


268  THE  CHAMPION 

was  thrust  forward  into  that  of  the  complainant. 
But  the  latter  was  not  the  sort  of  man  to  be  easily 
frightened;  he  relied,  moreover,  on  his  great 
strength  and  his  courage. 

"  'I  say  your  son  will  come  to  the  scaffold.' 

"Hardly  had  the  words  passed  his  lips  when  a 
tremendous  box  on  the  ear  made  him  stagger,  as 
Davesne  cried:: 
Take  that!' 

"The  man  recoiled  a  pace,  clenched  his  enormous 
fists,  and  lowered  his  head  like  a  bull.  Davesne 
made  no  motion  of  avoidance,  no  parry,  good  or  bad, 
but  sprang  at  the  left  shoulder  of  his  man,  and  seiz- 
ing his  arms,  threw  him  with  a  sudden  jerk  to  the 
ground. 

*  'Get  up  ...  I'm  going  to  smash  you !' 

"The  other  rose,  and  more  cautious,  though  un- 
daunted as  ever,  made  two  or  three  feints,  and  then 
came  on  with  a  rush.  He  was  received  in  so  rough 
a  fashion,  with  such  a  rain  of  blows  on  his  eyes  and 
face  generally,  that  he  fell  stunned  and  motionless. 
And  Davesne,  in  the  face  of  some  fifty  peasants 
who  had  run  to  the  spot,  coolly  spat  upon  the  face 
of  his  defeated  enemy,  saying: 

"That's  what  I'll  do  to  any  one  who  falls  foul  of 
me!' 

"Scared  by  the  terrific  strength  he  had  displayed, 
fascinated  by  his  little,  malevolent  eyes,  the  peasants 
stood  by  motionless.  Just  then  my  father  appeared. 
He  was  white  with  anger. 

'This  is  shameful,'  he  said  sternly. 

"  'Eh !'  said  Davesne.  .  .  .  'What's  that  the  fac- 
tory-rat says?' 


THE  CHAMPION  269 

"  'I  say  it  is  shameful.' 

"The  words  were  hardly  out  of  his  mouth  before 
he  was  caught  up  from  where  he  stood  among  the 
peasants,  and  placed  against  the  wall  of  the  farm- 
house. With  quick  movements  he  tried  to  defend 
himself.  The  other  felled  him  with  one  hand, 
calmly  set  a  knee  on  his  breast  and  said: 

"  'Beg  my  pardon.' 

"  'No.' 

Gasping,  mad  with  rage,  I  flew  to  the  assistance 
of  my  father,  and  thumped  the  monster  with  my 
fist.  Instantly  a  hand  seized  and  held  me  in  its 
grip,  and  before  I  knew  where  I  was,  I  was  dragged 
down  in  my  turn  and  under  the  knees  of  Davesne. 

"And  finding  ourselves  on  the  ground,  powerless, 
crushed,  choking — and  this  because  we  had  yielded 
to  a  generous  impulse — with  fifty  terrified  peasants 
looking  on  at  a  respectful  distance,  not  one  of  them 
daring  to  raise  a  hand  or  a  voice  on  our  behalf,  I 
realized  for  the  first  time  in  its  full  meaning  the 
cowardice  of  human  nature,  and  how  easy  it  is  to 
browbeat  and  enslave  by  brute  force.  The  fallen 
man  was  the  only  one  who  tried  to  take  our  part. 
He  raised  himself  with  difficulty,  and  advanced  a 
few  paces;  a  cunningly-directed  kick  brought  him 
to  the  ground  again. 

"Then  Davesne  deliberately  and  repeatedly  spat 
in  my  father's  face,  punching  him  about  the  body 
with  uncontrolled  violence.  I  made  a  desperate 
effort  to  free  myself,  and  such  was  my  bewildered 
passion,  my  frenzied  indignation,  I  did  not  even 
notice  the  blows  with  which  young  Davesne  assailed 
me. 


270  THE  CHAMPION 

"The  miserable  business  ended  at  last.  My  father 
was  hurled  a  dozen  paces,  beaten  black  and  blue, 
and  I  found  myself  beside  him  half-strangled  with 
rage,  grief  and  humiliation. 

''Coward I  Coward!  Coward!'  shouted  my 
father. 

"With  an  insulting  laugh  the  bully  rushed  at  him 
again,  and  once  again  my  father  was  on  the  ground. 
Then  taking  his  time,  Davesne  retreated  to  the  door 
of  his  cottage,  while  some  women  accompanied  the 
limping  men  to  a  neighboring  tavern:  for  not  a 
single  man  dare  appear  to  take  their  part. 


II 

"You  can  imagine  the  deplorable  condition  of 
my  father  during  the  following  days.  Every  senti- 
ment of  human  dignity  outraged,  the  excruciating 
pangs  a  proud  nature  suffers  when  it  is  subjected  to 
tyranny  against  which  there  is  no  redress,  the  be- 
numbing effects  of  sleeplessness,  the  heart  set  on  fire 
by  sudden  rushes  of  memory  in  which  he  lived  the 
scene  over  again,  the  contraction  of  the  stomach 
when  he  tried  to  eat,  the  sensation  of  the  world 
being  upside  down,  the  long  gray  evenings  when  he 
sat  silent  and  somber  in  the  twilight — all  this  preyed 
on  him  physically,  and  he  grew  pale  and  thin. 

"He  avoided  every  one,  kept  in  the  garden  after 
working  hours,  never  went  out  unless  armed  with 
a  long  knife,  dwelt  unceasingly  on  the  misery  of  his 
circumstances.  As  for  myself,  there  was  no  more 
play,  and  the  world  ended  with  the  garden  of  our 
little  cottage.  Some  kind  of  evil  spell  seemed  to 


THE  CHAMPION  271 

hang  over  the  village  and  the  desolate  moors  that 
seemed  to  shut  us  in. 

"But  in  spite  of  this  seclusion,  a  fresh  humiliation 
was  in  store  for  us. 

"It  was  Sunday.  Though  my  father  was  not  a 
religious  man,  he  sometimes  went  to  Mass  out  of 
respect  for  the  old  cure,  who  was  an  amiable  and 
worthy  man.  On  this  occasion,  when  we  were 
nearing  home  we  found  ourselves  face  to  face  with 
Davesne  and  his  son.  My  father  tried  to  keep  clear 
of  them,  wishing  to  avoid  a  second  conflict  in  which 
he  was  resolved  to  make  use  of  his  knife.  But 
young  Davesne  did  not  see  matters  in  that  light. 
He  barred  my  way,  and  planting  himself  in  front  of 
me,  hissed  in  my  face. 

'Little  beast,'  he  muttered  with  a  sneering  grin, 
as  I  tried  to  evade  him. 

"I  was  determined  not  to  answer.  My  silence 
enraged  him,  and  he  caught  me  by  the  ear  and 
dragged  me  along.  The  pain  was  acute,  but  I  made 
no  sound ;  I  only  tried  to  get  away.  Then  my  father, 
who  was  some  paces  in  front,  turned  back.  He  was 
deadly  pale,  and  his  eye  gleamed  with  a  dangerous 
brightness. 

'  'Let  go  of  him!'  he  said  to  young  Davesne. 

"The  boy  gave  a  defiant  chuckle,  and  pulled 
harder  at  my  ear.  My  father  took  him  by  the  wrist, 
and  separated  his  fingers.  As  I  got  free  a  savage 
voice  growled: 

'You  have  laid  hands  on  my  boy  .  .  .' 

"  'He  was  ill-treating  mine !' 

"Never  shall  I  forget  the  horror  of  that  moment. 
Fully  aware  of  his  own  strength,  Davesne  gathered 


272  THE  CHAMPION 

himself  up  and  raised  his  hand,  and  my  father,  fully 
aware  of  his  own  weakness,  encountered  the  fero- 
cious eyes  of  the  peasant. 

"  'Keep  your  hands  off  that  son  of  mine  .  .  . 
beg  his  pardon.' 

'I  didn't  hurt  him  in  any  way.' 

"  'Beg  his  pardon.' 

"  'I  will  not.' 

"The  huge  hand  fell  and  imprinted  itself  on  my 
father's  face.  At  the  same  moment  there  was  the 
gleam  of  a  knife. 

"  'So  that's  your  game,  is  it?'  cried  Davesne, 
taking  a  step  back.  'We're  going  to  have  some  fun.' 

"He  drew  from  his  pocket  a  sort  of  little  dagger 
inclosed  in  a  sheath.  The  blade  was  triangular, 
rather  tarnished  and  oily.  As  he  advanced,  my 
father  struck  out,  but  his  arm  was  flung  aside,  and 
the  little  dagger  entered  his  left  shoulder.  A  mo- 
ment later  his  knife  was  snatched  from  him,  and 
Davesne  cried  triumphantly : 

"  'There,  factory  rat,  you  always  get  what  you 
ask  for !' 

"My  father  staggered  against  the  wall,  while 
Davesne,  brandishing  the  captured  knife  and  dagger, 
looked  threateningly  at  the  crowd  of  peasants  who 
showed  some  signs  of  terror-stricken  indignation: 

"  'And  I've  got  the  same  waiting  for  all  of  you, 
you  pack  of  cowards !' 

in 

"From  that  day  the  village  was  so  thoroughly 
subjugated  that  no  one  would  have  dared  appear 
in  a  court  of  justice  against  Davesne.  The  brute 


THE  CHAMPION  273 

prided  himself  on  his  triumph,  and  accentuated  it 
on  every  occasion  by  some  truculent  action  in  the 
tavern  or  in  the  open  street.  The  village  folk  be- 
came resigned  to  it,  and  some  of  them  even  paid  a 
sycophantish  court  to  the  conquering  hero.  As  for 
young  Davesne,  he  was  the  undisputed  king  of  the 
boys,  bullying  them  when  he  was  so  inclined,  and 
thrashing  them  at  his  pleasure.  My  father  and  I 
lived  in  an  atmosphere  of  shame,  horror,  revolt, 
impotence — lived  so  lonely  and  isolated  that  we  al- 
most became  savages.  The  idea  of  justice  was  dead 
within  us ;  the  world  seemed  so  awful  that  we  many 
a  time  wished  we  were  dead. 

"In  this  way  a  year  passed  by,  and  then  came 
the  spring  morning  when  a  new  adventure  befell  me. 
I  had  risked  taking  a  walk  through  the  little  wood, 
and  as  I  returned  home,  I  found  myself  mixed  up 
with  a  group  of  urchins  not  far  from  the  factory. 

"It  was  on  the  border  of  a  meadow  through 
which  flowed  a  small  stream,  little  more  than  a 
brook.  On  the  right,  at  a  short  distance,  was  a  cot- 
tage which  had  been  occupied  only  the  day  before 
by  a  temporary  inhabitant,  a  carpenter  by  trade, 
who  had  come  to  undertake  some  additional  con- 
structions at  the  factory.  As  I  came  out  of  the 
wood  I  found  myself,  as  I  say,  confronted  by  a  dozen 
boys  under  the  leadership  of  young  Davesne. 

"The  latter  had  no  sooner  spied  me  than  he  called 
out: 

"  'So  it's  you,  little  pig  .  .  .  come  here !' 

"I  pretended  not  to  hear  and  hurried  on. 

"  'Are  you  deaf?'  shouted  the  tyrant.  'Come  here, 
I  tell  you !' 


274  THE  CHAMPION 

"My  heart  was  beating  furiously,  but  I  continued 
to  walk  on  without  saying  a  word.  Then  young 
Davesne,  with  a  bound,  caught  me  up  and  seized  me 
by  the  hair. 

"  'Ah,  you  won't  answer,  dirty  little  beast!  You 
think  you're  very  clever,  don't  you  ?' 

"I  knew  that  all  resistance  was  useless  and  only 
likely  to  make  matters  worse.  I  let  myself  be 
dragged  along  the  meadow  amid  the  obsequious 
laughter  of  the  others,  who  tried  to  curry  favor  with 
the  young  monster.  Thus  we  came  to  the  bank  of 
the  stream. 

"  'What  if  we  give  him  a  bath?'  said  some  one. 

"  'Capital,'  assented  Davesne.  'We'll  see  how  he 
likes  the  taste  of  water.' 

"He  still  held  me  roughly  by  the  hair.  I  knew 
that  he  would  not  scruple  to  hold  my  head  under  the 
water  as  long  as  he  liked,  and  I  began  to  struggle 
desperately. 

"  'The  calf  hangs  back,  doesn't  it?'  said  Davesne. 
'Wait  a  moment  and  I'll  show  you !' 

"He  had  pushed  me  down,  and  I  was  almost 
touching  the  water  when  a  clear,  bold,  young  voice 
broke  upon  us. 

"  'What  are  you  doing  there?' 

"Davesne,  surprised,  stopped  pushing  me,  and  I 
saw  running  from  the  cottage  a  black-haired,  white- 
skinned  boy,  whose  eyes  sparkled  with  anger.  With 
a  bound  he  was  in  our  midst,  and  had  shoved 
Davesne  roughly  aside.  It  was  then  that  I  experi- 
enced a  mingled  emotion,  intense  and  contradictory, 
such  as  I  have  never  known  before  or  since — infinite 
surprise  and  gratitude,  a  subtle  fondness  for  the 


THE  CHAMPION  275 

stranger-boy,  regret  that  he  should  be  there,  a  readi- 
ness to  suffer  myself  rather  than  see  him  exposed 
to  the  brutality  of  my  tormentor. 

"  'Perhaps  you'd  like  to  take  a  bath  instead  of 
him?'  sneered  Davesne. 

"I  tried  to  get  between  them.  Davesne  knocked 
me  out  of  the  way  with  a  blow  of  his  fist.  The 
stranger  said  eagerly: 

"  'Leave  it  to  me !' 

"I  would  have  intervened,  whatever  the  conse- 
quences, but  two  or  three  of  Davesne's  toadies  held 
me  off.  Then  I  saw  the  young  ruffian  rub  his  hands 
and  lower  his  head,  while  the  other  looked  at  him 
taking  his  measure.  There  could  be  no  doubt  as  to 
the  issue  of  the  contest.  Although  t;hey  were  nearly 
equal  in  size,  there  was  in  Davesne  something  of 
iron  resistance  that  marked  him  out  for  victory. 

"As  they  sprang  at  each  other  I  shut  my  eyes,  so 
that  I  might  not  see  my  young  champion  overthrown. 
When  I  opened  them  again,  wondering  at  the  con- 
tinuance of  the  battle,  I  became  greatly  excited. 
Davesne  had  fallen  back,  visibly  hard-pressed,  and 
the  other  with  quick,  almost  rhythmic  movements, 
was  gaining  upon  him  every  moment.  At  one  time 
the  battle  wavered,  at  another  Davesne  seemed  to 
be  getting  the  upper  hand,  and  then  all  of  a  sudden, 
I  saw  the  tyrant  on  the  ground  trying  to  strike  and 
bite,  while  the  other  struck  him  vigorously  on  the 
jaw.  The  frantic  joy  that  took  possession  of  me 
made  me  tremble  from  head  to  foot.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  the  whole  of  life  had  changed,  and  that  it 
had  become  beautiful.  Only  one  pang  shot  across 
the  felicity  of  that  minute — the  fear  that  Davesne 


276  THE  CHAMPION 

would  take  his  revenge;  and  I  beheld  the  conqueror1 
with  eyes  of  adoration  such  as  I  had  assuredly  never 
bestowed  upon  any  symbol  of  divinity. 

"Meanwhile,  having  thoroughly  pressed  home  his 
victory,  and  pounded  the  other,  as  he  thought,  into 
impotence,  the  stranger  leapt  to  his  feet.  Davesne 
was  up  almost  at  the  same  time,  and  advancing  to 
renew  the  battle. 

"'Look  out!'  I  cried  in  terror. 

"I  would  have  got  in  between  them,  but  my  new 
friend  pushed  me  away  with  a :  'Leave  it  to  me !' 

"Almost  as  he  spoke,  Davesne  made  a  rush  with 
that  rapidity  and  force  which  made  him  irresistible. 
My  friend  jumped  back  a  couple  of  paces,  took  a 
bound  in  his  turn,  and  shot  like  a  bullet  at  his  an- 
tagonist. Davesne  rolled  on  the  ground  once  more. 

"I  had  no  further  anxiety.  A  joyful  sense  of 
security  filled  my  heart,  and  the  same  gladness  might 
have  been  seen  to  overspread  the  faces  of  the  other 
onlookers.  But  this  joy  was  of  short  duration.  A 
terrible  voice  was  suddenly  heard,  and  we  saw 
Davesne's  father  approaching.  Almost  simultane- 
ously my  own  father  came  out  from  the  factory,  and 
a  man  with  a  frank,  open  face  and  a  very  black 
beard  appeared  at  the  door  of  the  cottage  from 
which  the  boy  had  come. 

'You    young    blackguard,'    shouted    Davesne, 
'you've  done  this  by  foul  play.' 

'That's  not  true !'  cried  my  father. 

1  'What !  you  again !'  exclaimed  the  brute. 

"Then  we  heard  a  deep  voice  with  just  the  least 
tremor  in  it: 


THE  CHAMPION  277 

"  'My  son  was  never  guilty  of  foul  play — and 
yours  is  a  coward.5 

"'Hallo!  .  .  .  It's  the  stranger  .  .  .  Some  more 
fun!' 

"The  man  from  the  cottage  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders, while  Davesne  approached  with  deliberate  step 
and  a  ferocious  expression. 

"  'You  want  a  taste  of  what  the  others  have  got?' 

"It  seemed  only  too  probable  he  would  get  it. 
The  carpenter  was  certainly  a  strapping  fellow  and 
strong  as  a  horse,  but  Davesne  was  a  veritable  fight- 
ing beast — the  human  animal  admirably  propor- 
tioned for  the  stress  and  swiftness  of  attack.  The 
victory  of  the  young  son  was  a  welcome  surprise  to 
all;  but  there  was  no  hope  of  such  luck  in  the  case 
of  the  father.  Meanwhile,  my  own  father  had  come 
forward  into  the  meadow,  and  the  villagers  looked 
on  at  a  safe  distance,  afraid  to  express  their  feelings, 
cunningly  neutral,  and  entirely  under  the  subjection 
of  the  tyrant. 

1  'What  do  you  want?'  said  the  carpenter.  'What 
reason  have  you  for  attacking  me  ?' 

"Although  he  spoke  in  a  resolute  tone  he  seemed 
to  show  some  vacillation,  and  my  father  made  a 
sign  to  him  to  return  to  his  house.  It  was  too  late. 
Davesne  had  leapt  at  his  throat.  There  were  two 
or  three  moments  of  horrible  suspense ;  then  we  saw 
that  the  carpenter  had  got  clear,  and  was  holding 
himself  on  the  defensive.  Davesne  renewed  his  at- 
tack, and  delivered  many  blows,  which  were  parried, 
or,  at  any  rate,  lost  most  of  their  force.  The  car- 
penter took  the  offensive  in  his  turn.  Davesne  had 


278  THE  CHAMPION 

only  just  time  to  dodge  aside.  Then  they  came  up 
face  to  face,  and  it  was  evident  that  the  brute  had 
met  his  match.  Realizing  this,  his  features  hardened 
and  a  murderous  look  came  into  his  eyes.  My 
father,  ready  to  die  rather  than  desert  his  new  ally, 
was  about  to  take  his  place  at  his  side. 

"  'Stay  where  you  are,'  said  the  other  in  so  stern 
a  voice  that  my  father  did  not  persist.  He  attacked 
again,  and  this  time  caught  Davesne  full  on  the  face. 
The  other  replied  with  a  shower  of  blows,  one  of 
which  got  home  and  made  the  carpenter  stagger.  I 
thought  it  was  all  up  with  him  and  groaned.  But  I 
was  wild  with  delight  when  I  saw  him  come  on  again, 
break  Davesne's  guard,  and  with  three  smashing 
blows  on  the  jaw,  stretch  the  brute  on  the  ground 
with  blood  on  his  face. 

"Then  my  father  and  I  looked  at  each  other;  and 
no  miracle  of  the  spiritual  kind,  none  of  the  ap- 
paritions of  heaven-sent  beings  that  used  to  elevate 
the  souls  of  men,  can  ever  have  caused  more  exalta- 
tion than  the  ecstasy  of  joy  that  blanched  our  faces. 
I  wanted  to  go  on  my  knees  to  the  carpenter  and 
his  son,  who  from  that  moment  became  for  me  the 
highest  personification  of  manhood. 

"But  the  battle  was  not  yet  over.  Our  new-born 
Hope  was  not  free  from  doubt.  The  carpenter  had 
let  Davesne  get  up.  The  brute  had  evidently  made 
up  his  mind  for  a  struggle  in  which  body  joins  body 
— for  the  grip  in  which  main  force  alone  counts. 
It  was  obviously  the  plan  best  suited  to  his  immense 
strength  now  that  all  his  other  tactics  had  failed. 
He  stood  for  some  moments  taking  stock  of  his 
opponent,  his  eyes  bloodshot,  his  mouth  set  in  a 


THE  CHAMPION  279 

revolting  intensity  of  hatred.  The  carpenter  him- 
self seemed  a  little  daunted  as  he  watched  every 
movement  of  Davesne.  At  last  came  the  rush. 
There  was  a  confused  intermingling  of  limbs  and 
bodies;  then  the  antagonists  became  locked  together, 
their  positions  being  about  equally  favorable.  With 
a  last  supreme  effort,  Davesne  lifted  the  other  off 
his  legs;  we  thought  this  was  the  end.  And  so 
indeed  it  was,  but  in  another  sense.  The  carpenter 
fell  on  his  feet,  and  with  lightning  swiftness  took  on 
the  offensive.  Davesne  doubled  and  twisted  in  his 
grip,  but  borne  down  in  that  close  embrace,  he  found 
ihimself  touching  the  earth  with  his  shoulders. 

"'Do  you  give  in?'  said  the  carpenter. 

"Davesne  made  a  desperate  struggle  to  rise;  the 
carpenter  forced  him  back  and  pinned  him  to  the 
ground. 

"  'Do  you  give  in?' 

"Then  a  hoarse  voice  muttered: 

"  'I  give  in.' 

"They  both  rose.  Davesne  stood  irresolute  for 
one  moment;  but  finally  he  accepted  his  defeat,  and 
moved  away  with  bowed  head. 

"My  father  rushed  up  to  the  carpenter  in  a  trans- 
port of  joy,  and  I  murmured  words  of  heartfelt 
gratitude  to  my  youthful  deliverer.  Pressing  round 
us,  the  peasants  raised  loud  cheers  for  the  victor. 

"Such  is  the  most  notable  passage  of  my  life, 
which  I  cannot  even  now  recall  without  a  thrill  of 
emotion;  such  is  also  the  origin  of  the  closest  of  my 
attachments.  My  father  became  the  carpenter's 
close  friend,  and  the  son  became  mine.  This  double 
alliance  resulted  in  much  happiness,  for  later  on  our 


28o  THE  CHAMPION 

two  fathers,  as  the  result  of  some  fortunate  circum- 
stances, became  partners  in  a  successful  scheme  for 
clearing  land.  As  for  me,  I  found  in  Charles  an 
inseparable  companion  and  a  loyal  protector,  gentle 
as  he  was  brave.  My  devotion  to  him  became  al- 
most a  religion,  and  even  now  the  happiest  days  of 
my  life  are  those  we  spend  together  either  here  in 
Paris  or  in  his  forest-surrounded  home  in  the 
country." 


ROBERT  SCHEFFER 


ROBERT  SCHEFFER,  born  at  Colmar,  Alsace,  in  1863,  is  the  son  of 
a  clergyman.  In  1866  he  became  private  secretary  to  Carmen 
Sylva,  Queen  of  Roumania,  one  of  his  most  interesting  books 
being  Orient  Royal:  Cinq  ans  a  la  Cour  de  Roumanie.  In  1891 
he  went  to  Paris  to  devote  himself  to  literature,  since  when  he  has 
contributed  to  all  the  leading  magazines,  and  produced  twelve 
volumes,  of  which  three  or  four  are  collections  of  short  stories, 
and  four  are  volumes  of  verse.  "The  Mother"  is  taken  from  a 
volume  called  Le  Vol  d'lcare. 


HOW  and  when  Jacques  and  I  became  friends 
matters  very  little.  I  think  he  takes  pleasure 
in  my  society  because  it  is  natural  to  me  to  speak 
my  mind  without  reticence  or  reserve.  He,  on  the 
other  hand,  talks  about  what  he  has  observed — he 
is  a  great  traveler — but  as  regards  himself  he  main- 
tains an  obstinate  silence.  In  this  way  we  are  human 
complements.  On  the  outbreak  of  war  we  lost  sight 
of  each  other;  all  I  knew  of  him  was  that  his  thor- 
ough knowledge  of  German  had  enabled  him  to 
offer  his  services  as  an  interpreter.  Towards  the 
end  of  last  year  we  met  again,  and  his  work  keeping 
him  since  that  time  in  Paris,  we  renewed,  so  far  as 
his  duties  permitted,  our  old  companionship.  There 
was  little  change  in  either  of  us,  and  the  accounts 
he  gave  of  his  experiences  were  immensely  interest- 
ing to  one  who  had  vegetated  while  so  much  was 
doing,  and  could  contribute  nothing  to  the  war  but 
idle  speculations.  I  remarked,  however,  the  imprint 
of  suffering  in  the  lines  of  his  face,  which  I  thought 
was  not  to  be  wondered  at  considering  the  nature  of 
his  work.  But  it  appeared  there  was  a  more  inti- 
mate and  secret  cause  for  it. 

Yesterday  afternoon  he  came  to  me  in  a  nervous, 


284  THE  MOTHER 

agitated  state,  altogether  unlike  himself.  Before 
I  could  ask  any  questions,  he  broke  out,  pacing  the 
floor  with  long  strides : 

"I  must  speak.  I  must  tell  my  trouble  to  some 
one.  It  has  been  making  me  miserable  all  through 
the  war,  and  to-day  I  feel  as  if  my  heart  is  breaking." 

I  was  completely  taken  aback.  He  saw  it,  and 
went  on  more  calmly: 

"Oh!  I've  not  committed  any  crime.  It's  sorrow, 
and  sorrow  of  a  most  intimate  kind.  Let  me  tell 
you  about  it;  perhaps  that  will  ease  my  mind.  You 
know  nothing,  or  next  to  nothing,  of  my  family,  ex- 
cept that  my  father  was  a  worthy  man,  a  wine- 
merchant,  and  that  he  left  me  my  small  income. 
But  my  mother — well,  though  her  name  was  French, 
my  mother  was  a  German. 

"My  mother  had  never  been  able  to  adapt  herself 
to  French  ways  and  manners,  and  at  Paris  hankered 
incessantly  after  the  Baden  district  where  she  was 
born.  How  the  marriage  came  about  I  do  not  ex- 
actly know;  it  was  a  case  of  love  on  my  father's 
side,  I  believe,  but  more  especially  one  of  mutual 
interests  affecting  the  two  families. 

"I  was  an  only  child,  and  my  parents  were  de- 
voted to  me.  My  father,  who  considered  me  gifted 
beyond  my  years,  imagined  a  brilliant  career  for 
me;  I  was  to  study  law,  was  to  be  a  barrister,  Mem- 
ber of  Parliament,  a  Minister.  My  mother  shook 
her  head;  she  would  have  liked  me  to  be  a  poet, 
a  musician,  and  though  she  did  not  put  it  into  words, 
she  believed  that  I  should  find  Germany  the  country 
most  suited  to  my  talents  and  character. 

"How  can  I  describe  my  mother.     Dreamy  and 


THE  MOTHER  285 

sentimental,  she  passed  part  of  every  day  at  the 
piano,  absorbed  in  Mendelssohn  or  Schumann;  she 
loved  to  interpret  Wagner  to  me,  and  growing  ex- 
alted as  she  played,  a  dreamy  mysticism  used  to  fill 
her  eyes  as  she  said:  'Listen  intently:  it  is  the  soul 
of  my  country  overflowing  and  shedding  its  blessing 
on  you.'  I  loved  that  music,  and  as  I  listened,  my 
mother's  charming  face,  beautified  by  her  exaltation, 
symbolized  for  me  the  country  of  her  birth.  I  did 
not  care  so  much  for  the  poetry  she  used  to  read 
me — Uhland,  Geibel,  or  Schiller,  whom  she  consid- 
ered incomparable.  I  did  not  understand  them ;  and 
when  she  tried  to  make  me  like  the  patriotic  poems 
of  Arndt  or  Koerner,  my  whole  soul  rebelled.  Some 
instinctive  revolt  made  me  remember  that  my  father 
was  French,  and  I  told  her  so.  Then  she  would 
stroke  my  hair  and  say  sadly :  'Poor  child,  you  ought 
to  have  had  a  different  father.' 

"My  father  knew  nothing  of  all  this;  he  fully 
believed  that  in  spite  of  her  German  ways,  his  wife 
was  quite  content  with  her  adopted  country,  and 
he  never  troubled  himself  about  my  double  heredity 
and  its  possible  influence.  And  no  harm  might  have 
come  from  it  had  he  lived,  but  he  died  before  I  had 
grown  out  of  boyhood,  and  the  course  of  my  exist- 
ence was  entirely  changed. 

"My  mother  went  back  to  live  with  her  family, 
and  under  the  pretext  that  it  would  be  useful  for  me 
to  know  German  thoroughly,  I  was  sent  to  a  board- 
ing-school at  Heilbronn,  Wurtemburg.  I  was  not 
happy  there — not  that  they  ill-treated  me,  but  they 
were  completely  tactless,  making  me  feel  their,  not 
hostility  towards  the  French,  but  a  kind  of  sympa- 


286  THE  MOTHER 

thetic  pity.  For  example,  one  day  when  a  professor 
had  been  extolling  the  virtues  and  greatness  of  Ger- 
many, he  said  to  me:  'You  have  a  share  in  all  this. 
You  are  half-German,  and  the  day  will  come  when 
you  will  have  to  be  wholly  German.'  And  he  went 
on  to  describe  the  dream  of  Germany  ruling  the 
world  and  regenerating  mankind  under  the  inspiring 
genius  of  the  Emperor.  I  protested  hotly;  but  he 
only  burst  into  a  fit  of  laughter  in  which  my  school- 
fellows joined. 

"I  spent  my  holidays  alternately  with  relatives  of 
my  father  or  with  my  mother.  My  mother  ...  I 
hardly  recognized  her,  she  had  so  completely 
changed.  She  had  bloomed  into  a  different  kind  of 
being.  Dreamy  and  wistful  in  bygone  days,  she  was 
now  expansive  and  full  of  merriment.  She  laughed 
heartily  at  the  broadest  German  jokes.  The  key- 
board of  the  piano  was  no  longer  touched  with 
dreamy  restraint;  its  notes  thundered.  Her  voice 
vibrated  as  she  sang  passionate  'lieder.'  She  dressed 
richly  and  with  a  bad  taste  that  shocked  me.  She 
had  become  an  excessive  eater.  I  could  not  bear  to 
see  her  enjoying  an  atmosphere  of  pretentious  vul- 
garity. She  would  kiss  me,  saying:  'Well,  you're 
happy  here,  Jacques,  aren't  you?  You  feel  that 
you're  lucky  to  be  growing  up  among  a  race  of  won- 
derful people,  don't  you?'  And  she  would  run  on 
interminably  in  the  same  strain,  repeating  that  she 
was  happy,  and  taking  no  notice  of  my  uneasiness. 
Her  brother — my  uncle — noticed  it  for  her.  'Oh, 
the  little  Frenchie!'  he  scoffed,  'he  is  prejudiced 
against  us  now,  but  the  day  will  come  when  he  will 
have  to  love  us!'  I  thought  of  my  father  and  all 


THE  MOTHER  287 

he  had  told  me  of  the  agonies  of  1870,  and  my  eyes 
filled  with  tears. 

"Happy,  yes,  my  mother  was  happy,  more  than 
happy,  and  in  a  way  I  little  imagined.  One  evening 
— it  was  during  the  Easter  holidays — she  beckoned 
me  to  her  side.  An  air  of  great  festivity  permeated 
the  house,  which  I  put  down  to  preparations  for 
Easter.  But  I  was  wrong.  Without  any  leading 
up  to  it,  she  said:  'Jacques,  I  am  going  to  be  mar- 
ried.' I  stared  at  her,  stupefied.  She  laughed. 
'You  think  I'm  too  old  for  that?'  No,  my  mother 
was  still  quite  young,  younger  than  I  had  ever 
known  her,  exuberant  to  an  overwhelming  degree. 
My  throat  contracted  with  a  kind  of  anguish.  'And 
who  is  it?'  I  murmured.  'Dr.  Weber.'  Dr.  Weber, 
red-faced,  fat,  gold-spectacled,  vain,  prosy  ...  'A 
German,'  I  cried.  'Naturally,'  she  replied.  A 
heart-twist  sent  burning  tears  to  my  eyes  .  .  .  She 
looked  at  me  with  cold  displeasure,  reproaching  me 
for  being  too  sensitive  and  shutting  my  eyes  to  the 
realities  of  life.  But  later  on  she  kissed  me,  assur- 
ing me  that  the  marriage  would  make  no  change  in 
our  relationship;  then  she  praised  the  attainments 
and  character  of  my  future  stepfather,  and  finally  I 
was  dismissed  with  the  information  that  she  had 
made  all  arrangements  for  completing  my  education, 
and  that  I  was  free  to  choose  my  path  in  life — in 
Germany  or  in  France. 

"I  could  not  bear  the  idea  of  meeting  Dr.  Weber 
again,  and  next  day  I  took  refuge  with  some  rela- 
tions of  my  father. 

"For  a  long  time  I  reproached  myself  bitterly 
for  having  acted  like  this  towards  my  mother.  It 


288  THE  MOTHER 

was  about  1895,  and  there  was  at  that  period  no 
hatred  of  Germany,  rather  an  instinctive  antipathy 
not  unmingled  with  admiration.  But  it  was  no  use 
reasoning  with  myself;  I  felt  a  kind  of  shame  about 
this  second  marriage;  it  seemed  to  me  that  in  some 
subtle  way  the  humiliation  involved  me,  and  that 
sensation  was  strong  enough  to  make  me  recoil  from 
companionship  in  directions  where  my  parentage 
was  known. 

"From  that  time  onwards  I  knew  nothing  of  my 
mother  but  what  her  letters  told  me.  Yet  I  loved 
her,  and  loved  her  with  all  the  more  ardor  because 
I  needed  her  and  she  was  so  far  away.  I  read  her 
letters  eagerly,  trying  to  discover  in  them  some  token 
of  affection  and  tenderness.  If  there  had  been  one 
word  of  real  love,  I  would  have  asked  forgiveness, 
and  would  have  approached  her  husband  in  a 
friendly  spirit.  But  they  were  frigid,  with  a  for- 
bidding note  of  pendantry  in  their  eternal  good 
advice,  and  when  she  told  me  she  had  given  birth 
to  a  son,  Eric,  I  knew  the  separation  was  definite, 
and  that  for  her  I  had  become  a  foreigner. 

"Study  and  travel  in  different  countries  kept  me 
from  dwelling  on  my  curious  orphanhood,  and  I 
grew  to  look  on  it  with  a  calmness  that  verged  on 
indifference.  Or  I  thought  I  did.  But  indifference 
is  apparently  only  a  passing  sleep  of  the  feelings, 
for  I  have  just  had  an  experience  that  has  awakened 
emotions  which  prove  that,  though  I  have  not  heard 
from  her  since  the  outbreak  of  war,  nothing  can 
alter  my  love  for  her. 

"You  know  that  a  few  days  ago  a  Zeppelin  was 
brought  down  near  Paris.  The  pilot,  dangerously 


THE  MOTHER  289 

wounded,  was  taken  prisoner.  I  have  not  seen  him, 
but  his  papers  were  sent  to  me  for  translation. 
There  were  letters  addressed  to  'Lieutenant  Eric 
Weber'  and — they  were  in  my  mother's 'handwriting! 

"I  cannot  describe  the  agony  with  which  I  read 
those  letters,  the  misery  of  having  to  translate  them 
for  others.  And  my  suffering  was  not  caused  by  the 
fact  that  my  brother,  my  half-brother,  had  come 
over  to  try  to  murder  our  civilians;  it  was  as  the 
son  of  my  mother  that  I  suffered.  For  all  the  letters 
began  'My  only  son;  My  dear  and  only  son  .  .  .' 
Apparently  I  have  ceased  to  exist  for  her. 

"Has  she  forgotten  me?  Has  she  abjured  me? 
My  mother  is  alive,  and  yet  I  have  no  mother. 
Can  you  realize  what  that  means,  you  who  have  a 
mother,  a  real  French  mother,  who  loves  you 
dearly?" 


MARCELLE  TINAYRE 


MAKCELLE  TINAYRE  is  known  to  American  readers  through  the 
translation  of  her  book,  La  Maison  du  Peche.  She  is  the  author 
of  several  other  novels,  including  La  Rebelle,  and  is  one  of  the 
short-story  writers  of  Le  Journal,  in  which  paper  "The  Home- 
coming" appeared.  She  is  still  quite  young,  and  lives  in  Paris. 


XXVIII 

THE  HOME-COMING 
By  MARCELLE  TINAYRE 

THE  young  widow  looked  at  the  small  gray  house 
that  seemed  to  stand  waiting  for  her  at  the  end 
of  the  garden,  and  the  path  that  led  to  it  appeared 
much  longer  and  narrower  than  it  used  to  be,  to  such 
an  extent  had  the  weeds  spread  over  the  gravel 
where  nobody  now  walked.  The  pear-trees  were  in 
full  leaf;  the  branches  of  the  lime-trees,  which  had 
not  been  cut  back  for  the  last  two  years,  were  wav- 
ing over  the  crumbling  top  of  the  wall.  The  nettles, 
now  in  flower,  were  everywhere,  choking  the  rose- 
bushes which  had  run  wild.  And  in  spite  of  the  sun 
and  the  song  of  the  birds,  you  felt  cold  in  this  gar- 
den, and  spoke  with  a  lowered  voice  as  if  you  were 
in  a  cemetery. 

An  old  servant,  who  had  received  the  traveler 
and  was  carrying  her  dressing-bag,  was  explaining 
the  bad  state  of  the  garden. 

"If  Madame  had  only  let  me  know  sooner,  I  would 
have  had  the  house  in  perfect  order  and  weeded 
the  garden,  and  everything  would  have  been  as  it 
was  before  .  .  .  But  I've  done  my  best;  I  have 
cleaned  the  drawing-room  and  the  other  rooms  with- 
out altering  anything,  and  Madame  will  find  even 
the  smallest  thing  exactly  where  it  used  to  be  .  .  ." 

293 


294  THE  HOME-COMING 

The  widow  nodded  her  assent.  She  could  not 
speak.  Her  clear  eyes,  young  eyes  that  tears  had 
tortured  but  had  not  faded,  filled  and  became  fixed 
on  the  shadow  on  the  gravel  of  her  long  widow's 
veil  which  rose  from  time  to  time  in  the  breeze,  and 
fell  back  like  a  tired  wing.  On  this  same  gravel, 
the  caprice  of  the  sun  and  wind  had  not  so  long  ago 
fashioned  other  shadows,  but  they  used  to  be  of 
white  skirts  and  gay  silken  scarves;  and  often  a 
slanting  sunbeam  had  laid  at  the  feet  of  the  young 
lovers  a  clear-cut  presentment  of  two  silhouettes 
closely  drawn  together.  .  .  .  How  far  away  it  all 
seemed  now!  Those  perfect  evenings,  love,  happi- 
ness, peace — they  had  vanished  like  the  shadows. 
One  August  morning  the  happy  master  of  the  little 
gray  house,  the  happy  husband  of  this  young  woman 
with  luminous  eyes,  had  gone  forth,  a  soldier  among 
many  soldiers.  .  .  .  He  was  not  to  return,  and  for 
two  years  his  widow  had  kept  away  from  the  home 
that  was  so  full  of  tender  memories  .  .  . 

But  at  last,  with  a  cruel  tightening  of  the  heart- 
strings, she  had  resolved  to  go  back,  and  she  did 
so  unable  to  decide  whether  she  was  making  a  pil- 
grimage or  committing  a  sacrilege.  She  would  have 
liked  the  hall-door  to  have  remained  for  ever  closed, 
enshrining  all  those  souvenirs  of  him  and  of  her, 
shutting  in  all  the  warmth  and  vitality  of  the  love 
the  house  had  witnessed  and  contained.  This  mourn- 
ing woman  had  found  a  strange  pleasure  in  thinking 
of  the  rooms,  the  furniture,  the  ornaments,  as  dumb 
and  cherished  creatures — sentient  creatures,  who 
remembered  the  beloved  master  and  were  waiting 


THE  HOME-COMING  295 

happily,  with  faithful  patience,  for  his  return,  be- 
cause they  did  not  know  that  he  was  dead. 

She  had  not  told  any  one  of  this  quaint  and  tender 
fancy,  born  in  a  passionate  soul  where  grief  had 
for  two  years  fostered  and  strengthened  ideas  full  of 
mysticism  and  touching  superstition.  Her  friends 
did  not  understand  her  apparent  neglect  of  the  gray 
house  and  the  old  garden,  or  why,  for  the  first  year 
of  her  widowhood,  she  went  far  away  to  a  village 
in  the  mountains.  And  some  women,  always  ready 
to  pronounce  severe  verdicts,  had  declared  that 
Juliette  was  lacking  in  devotion  to  her  husband's 
memory.  But  Juliette  did  not  wish  to  pose  as  a 
modern  Artemisia.  She  did  not  flaunt  the  emphatic 
and  solemn  widowhood  that  is  always  reminiscent  of 
the  day  of  the  funeral.  Her  black  dress  passed  un- 
noticed in  the  crowd.  Her  black  veil  was  as  modest 
as  her  face.  She  did  not  make  a  parade  of 
posthumous  faithfulness  which  might  have  been  a 
tacit  rebuke  to  other  widows  who,  perhaps  not  strong 
enough  to  stand  alone,  had  consoled  themselves  too 
quickly  .  .  . 

The  servant  went  in  first,  and  from  the  inside 
pushed  back  the  persiennes  of  the  drawing-room  win- 
dows. On  the  threshold  Juliette  hesitated.  When 
at  last  with  slow  steps  she  entered  the  hall,  its  cool- 
ness sent  a  chill  through  her.  Once  again  she  saw 
the  English  engravings  on  the  walls,  the  antlers,  the 
trophy  of  arms  on  the  large  panel,  and  the  green 
cane  furniture  with  yellow  cushions.  These  things 
exhaled  a  perfume  of  the  past  which  intoxicated  her 
as  would  a  sweet  and  fatal  philtre.  She  did  not  stop. 
Slowly,  with  the  strange  automatism  one  feels  in 


296  THE  HOME-COMING 

dreams,  she  crossed  the  drawing-room  with  its  Per- 
sian hangings,  where  the  piano  was  still  open,  where 
two  armchairs  were  drawn  close  together  near  a 
little  table  still  covered  with  old  magazines  and 
newspapers.  And  still  with  the  same  measured  steps, 
she  went  towards  the  corner-room  that  caught  the 
first  rays  of  the  morning  sun,  the  windows  wreathed 
by  clusters  of  roses,  the  room  that  had  been  their 
resting-place,  their  nest,  the  center  of  their  world. 

Bottles  and  silver  brushes  shone  on  the  dressing- 
table.  A  mauve  dressing-gown  had  been  thrown 
across  an  armchair.  In  a  crystal  bowl  there  was  still 
the  end  of  a  cigarette  that  had  not  burnt  out,  and 
a  pair  of  gold  sleeve-links  that  had  been  thrown 
there  in  the  hurry  of  departure.  And  the  railway 
time-table  for  July,  1914,  was  lying  on  the  floor, 
crumpled  up  ... 

Juliette  looked  at  the  silken  counterpane,  and  her 
thoughts  went  to  the  slightly-hollowed  place  into 
which  she  used  to  complain  she  always  slipped  when 
she  fell  asleep  against  the  big  strong  body  that  was 
truly  the  flesh  of  her  flesh,  the  complement  of  herself 
in  the  living  substance  of  another  being. 

Nothing  was  changed.  The  room,  the  furniture, 
the  light,  the  branches  of  the  rose-tree  against  the 
window  pane — and  the  bed  .  .  . 

The  house  of  happiness  knew  of  nothing  but  its 
happiness.  It  was  calm  and  confident.  No  one,  not 
even  the  nettles  in  the  garden  or  the  spiders  in  the 
dark  corners,  had  told  it  the  terrible  news. 

But  Juliette  felt  that  if  she  recognized  all  these 
things,  they  did  not  recognize  her  .  .  The  brightly- 
hued  chintz,  the  dainty  furniture,  the  little  familiar 


THE  HOME-COMING  297 

objects,  did  not  welcome  her;  they  were  hostile  to 
this  sad  stranger  dressed  in  black. 

A  flood  of  tears  gushed  up  from  her  heart  and 
filled  her  eyes — burning  tears  that  seemed  to  flow 
from  the  source  of  her  being,  and  carry  away  with 
them  some  essential  part  of  her  inner  life.  She  fell 
upon  the  bed,  clutching  at  the  counterpane  and  the 
pillow,  pressing  her  mouth  into  the  pale  satin.  And 
between  her  sobs  she  gasped: 

"He  is  dead!  .  .  .  He  is  dead!  He  will  never 
came  back  again !  .  .  .  He  is  dead  I  .  .  ." 

Then,  her  strength  all  spent,  she  lay  still  with 
outstretched  arms  in  a  silence  that  was  more  tragic 
than  her  weeping,  while  slowly  and  mysteriously  all 
round  her  the  soul  of  the  house  went  into  mourning. 


PIERRE  VEBER 


PIERRE  VEBER,  son  of  the  painter  Jean  Veber,  was  born  in  Paris 
in  1869.  His  first  book,  Vous  m'en  direz  tant,  was  written  in 
collaboration  with  his  brother-in-law,  Tristan  Bernard,  since 
when  he  has  written  several  novels,  and  become  well-known  as 
a  playwright.  He  was  for  some  time  dramatic  critic  for  the  New 
fork  Herald,  and  has  edited  more  than  one  of  the  leading  French 
newspapers.  "Widow  Foigney"  appears  in  a  book  of  short  stories 
called  Mademoiselle  Fanny. 


XXIX 
WIDOW  FOIGNEY 

By  PIERRE  VEBER 

MY  old  friend,  the  learned  Professor  Lucien 
Berthe,  said  to  me:  "You  have  just  passed 
your  last  examination,  and  you  are  now  a  fully- 
fledged  doctor.  You're  fairly  good-looking,  you 
dress  well,  you  talk  very  little,  you  look  trustworthy, 
and  have  an  air  of  listening  to  what  is  said  to  you 
even  when  you  are  thinking  of  something  else.  With 
these  points  in  your  favor,  you  are  sure  to  get  a  nice 
little  practice  together;  after  that,  invent  a  remedy 
and  you  will  make  a  lot  of  money,  and  if  you  end 
by  discovering  a  new  malady,  there  will  be  a  fortune 
for  you.  At  the  beginning,  choose  a  thickly-popu- 
lated neighborhood  where  there  are  a  lot  of  lower 
middle-class  people;  they  make  the  best  patients  be- 
cause they  lead  sedentary  lives,  and  are  frequently 
ailing.  Take  a  flat  on  the  ground-floor  in  some  house 
where  there  is  no  other  doctor — it  will  be  hard  to 
find,  but  it  does  exist." 

"And  ought  I  to  furnish  this  flat?" 

"Certainly.  Didn't  your  uncle,  President  Blom, 
leave  you  some  money  the  other  day?  How  much 
was  it?" 

"Ten  thousand  francs." 

301 


302  WIDOW  FOIGNEY 

"It's  very  little  .  .  .  but  you  must  make  it  do. 
You  must  furnish  a  waiting-room,  a  consulting-room, 
a  dining,  and  a  bed-room.  You  can  get  the  things 
second-hand.  Look  at  the  fourth  page  of  the  news- 
papers." 

I  followed  the  advice  of  my  old  chief.  Among 
the  advertisements  I  picked  out  one  that  read: 
Complete  household  effects,  elegant ,  good  as  new, 
for  sale  owing  to  death.  Apply  to  Madame  V .  F.f 
224  rue  Saint-Marc.  I  went  to  this  address  and 
asked  the  concierge  if  Madame  V.  F.  lived  there. 

"Ah!  Madame  the  Widow  Foigney?  The  sec- 
ond floor  to  the  left." 

I  went  upstairs  and  rang  the  bell.  An  old  man- 
servant dressed  in  black  took  me  into  a  charming 
little  drawing-room.  I  told  him  the  object  of  my 
visit,  and  he  bowed  and  went  away.  Left  thus  alone, 
I  discreetly  examined  the  armchairs,  passed  a  know- 
ing hand  over  the  desk,  the  center-table,  the  card- 
table,  fingered  the  curtains;  everything  seemed  in 
capital  condition;  and  certainly  Madame  the  Widow 
Foigney  was  a  very  excellent  housewife,  for  every- 
thing was  exquisitely  clean.  The  door  opened,  and 
in  came  a  pretty  woman,  very  fair,  inclined  to  be 
plump,  with  an  amusing  little  face  and  a  piquant 
nose.  She  was  dressed  in  deep  mourning,  but  her 
face  showed  no  traces  of  grief.  She  asked  me  to  sit 
down. 

"Monsieur,"  she  said,  "let  me  begin  by  telling 
you  that  you  can  have  these  things  very  cheap.  .  .  . 
I  am  obliged  to  go  to  Antwerp.  My  people  live 
there,  and  as  the  death  of  my  poor  husband  necessi- 
tates my  leaving  Paris,  I  am  going  to  stay  for  a 


WIDOW  FOIGNEY  303 

time  with  my  mother.    Except  for  my  servant,  Noel, 
I  am  quite  alone  here." 

"The  old  servant  who  opened  the  door?" 

"Yes,  such  a  devoted  creature.  My  husband  died 
in  his  arms." 

Here  Madame  Foigney's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 
I  hastened  to  express  my  regret  for  having  inadver- 
tently suggested  such  sad  thoughts. 

"Oh,  no,  Monsieur!  It  is  I  who  am  silly  not  to 
succeed  in  banishing  them.  But  I  was  so  happy 
during  the  six  months  I  had  my  dear  husband  with 
me." 

"Only  six  months?" 

"Yes,  just  six  months  of  happiness.  You  will  see 
that  the  furniture  is  practically  new.  The  more  so 
that  we  had*  been  married  four  months  before  we 
bought  it.  We  spent  the  first  few  months,  our  honey- 
moon, at  Antwerp  with  my  mother.  Ah!  Those 
four  months!  If  you  only  knew,  Monsieur  ...  if 
you  only  knew.  .  .  .  And  then  just  after  we  came 
here  my  poor  husband  fell  ill." 

"What  was  the  matter  with  him?"  I  asked  a  little 
uneasily. 

"Oh,  nothing  contagious.  My  husband  had  heart- 
disease,  and  he  was  removed  at  once  to  a  nursing 
home.  The  furniture  and  bedding  are  intact." 

"So  much  the  better." 

Madame  the  Widow  Foigney  did  not  seem  to 
have  heard  my  involuntary  exclamation.  She  was 
talking  again  of  her  dear  lost  one,  of  the  wonderful 
qualities  he  possessed,  of  the  devotion  of  the  elderly 
Noel — ah!  those  old  family  servants!  I  was  be- 
ginning to  see  that  she  was  a  woman  with  a  very 


304  WIDOW  FOIGNEY 

warm  heart  and  fine  feelings,  and  I  found  myself 
thinking  with  some  envy  of  this  Foigney,  who  had 
been  lucky  enough  to  be  loved  by  such  a  charming 
person.  The  minutes  flew  by  without  my  making 
any  allusion  to  the  furniture,  and  it  was  Madame 
Foigney  who  returned  to  the  subject. 

"But  I  must  be  boring  you,  Monsieur,  telling  you 
all  those  things  that  have  no  interest  for  any  one 
but  me.  Would  you  like  to  see  the  furniture?  I 
have  decided  to  sell  everything,  from  the  chandeliers 
to  the  saucepans.  I  don't  want  to  keep  a  single 
thing  that  will  recall  my  lost  happiness." 

After  we  had  examined  everything  in  the  drawing- 
room,  she  took  me  to  the  Henri  II  dining-room;  it 
is  curious  to  find  how  frequently  this  eclipsed  mon- 
arch presides  at  the  repasts  of  the  French  middle- 
classes,  while  Louis  XV  alternates  with  Louis  XVI 
in  superintending  conversation  in  the  drawing-rooms 
where  people  talk  too  much. 

But  Madame  de  Pompadour  had  organized  the 
elegant  discretion  of  the  bedroom,  where  twin  beds 
stood  close  together  under  one  canopy.  I  remarked 
that  one  bed  would  be  enough  for  me,  that  I  was  not 
married. 

"Bah!"  replied  Madame  Foigney.  "You  will 
marry  before  long.  No  one  can  live  alone." 

I  do  not  know  why  this  phrase  had  a  great  effect 
on  me. 

When  we  returned  to  the  drawing-room  I  asked 
the  price  of  the  things. 

"Really  I  hardly  know  what  to  say  ...  I  don't 
understand  these  matters.  What  ought  I  to  ask? 
...  let  me  think.  We  bought  everything  at  the 


WIDOW  FOIGNEY  305 

best  house-furnishers  in  Paris — Servaings.  It  all 
cost  twenty-five  thousand  francs.  I  can  show  you 
the  bills  .  .  ." 

"That's  surely  very  dear  .  .  ." 

"I  should  not  ask  you  to  pay  the  full  sum.  .  .  . 
though  everything  is  new,  it  is  still  what  one  calls 
'second-hand  furniture.'  Suppose  I  let  you  have  it 
for  ...  let  me  see  .  .  .  twenty  thousand  francs?" 

This  was  double  the  amount  I  had  meant  to  spend. 
Madame  Foigney  understood  my  hesitation. 

"Well,  then,  suppose  we  say  fifteen  thousand  and 
be  done  with  it?  ...  If  it  is  not  convenient  to  pay 
all  at  once,  you  can  give  me  two-thirds  now,  and  the 
balance  in  six  months'  time." 

I  would  have  accepted  at  once,  and  with  gratitude, 
but  I  felt  I  ought  to  seem  to  be  considering  the  offer. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  charm  and  grace  of  the  seller 
had  made  an  immense  impression  on  me,  and  I  did 
not  like  the  idea  of  not  seeing  her  again.  I  told  her 
I  would  give  a  definite  answer  in  two  days'  time. 
She  did  not  try  to  hide  her  disappointment. 

"It's  not  very  convenient  to  wait  like  that,"  she 
said.  "I  wanted  to  get  away  by  the  end  of  the 
week." 

"So  soon?"  I  exclaimed  involuntarily. 

Madame  Foigney  blushed;  yes,  she  blushed.  .  .  . 
But  she  was  not  displeased;  my  sincerity  was  too 
evident,  and  all  she  said  was:  "Very  well,  I  shall 
expect  you  on  Thursday."  The  elderly  Noel  opened 
the  door  ceremoniously  for  me,  and  I  found  myself 
looking  with  friendliness  at  this  fine  old  servant, 
whom  I  should  have  been  glad  to  purchase  with  the 
furniture. 


3o6  WIDOW  FOIGNEY 

As  I  went  home,  I  called  to  see  the  Professor 
Lucien  Berthe,  to  whom  I  related  the  incidents  of 
the  afternoon.  He  gave  me  a  word  of  warning. 

"Take  care  what  you're  doing.  ...  I  believe 
your  pretty  widow  is  making  a  fool  of  you  .  .  . 
Fifteen  thousand  silver  francs!  And  you  call  that 
a  bargain?" 

I  almost  lost  my  temper,  and  I  began  to  wonder 
seriously  whether  my  good  old  chief  was  not 
threatened  with  senile  decay. 

I  was  also  impelled  to  take  all  my  friends  into 
my  confidence  about  my  visit  to  224,  rue  Saint  Marc. 
"If  she  is  as  pretty  as  all  that,  this  little  Foigney, 
why  don't  you  try  to  console  her?"  Some  men  are 
very  coarse  ...  At  length  the  great  day  came.  It 
was  impossible  to  sleep  on  Wednesday  night,  for  a 
curious  idea  had  come  to  me.  I  struggled  against 
it,  but  it  only  grew  stronger.  It  was  stupid,  idiotic 
...  so  much  the  worse  .  .  .  there  it  was !  .  .  . 

I  dressed  myself  with  unusual  care  before  setting 
out  for  rue  Saint  Marc.  The  old  Noel  opened  the 
door.  He  remembered  me. 

"Ah !  It  is  the  gentleman  who  called  on  Tuesday. 
I  will  go  and  tell  Madame." 

Madame  Foigney  herself  came  to  take  me  to  the 
drawing-room.  ShJe  was  even  prettier  than  when  I 
saw  her  before — or  I  was  intoxicated  with  love  at 
first  sight.  I  felt  that  I  was  on  the  point  of  com- 
mitting an  irreparable  mistake.  Meanwhile  Ma- 
dame Foigney  was  talking. 

"I  have  been  waiting  impatiently  for  you.  Two 
or  three  people  have  come  since  you  were  here,  and 
have  offered  me  more  than  the  sum  we  agreed  on. 


WIDOW  FOIGNEY  307 

.  .  .  But  I  was  bound  by  my  promise,  and  I  told 
them  I  could  not  give  a  reply  till  to-morrow  .  .  . 
I  have  also  had  a  visit  from  a  gentleman  who  imag- 
ined extraordinary  things  .  .  .  that  I,  too,  was  for 
sale,  and  who  took  upon  himself  to  .  .  ." 

"The  beast!"  I  cried  hotly.  "I'd  have  settled 
him  quickly  if  I'd  been  here." 

"You  are  very  kind,  but  I  rang  the  bell,  and  Noel 
came  and  soon  showed  him  out." 

"But  it's  horrible!  To  think  that  you  should  be 
at  the  mercy  of  any  cad  who  likes  to  force  himself 
in  like  that!  .  .  .  You,  so  delicate,  so  exquisite,  to 
think  of  you  being  exposed  defenseless  to  such 
insults  I" 

I  was  off !  Carried  clean  away  by  the  lyricism  of 
heroic  amorousness,  I  let  myself  go. 

It  was  in  vain  that  Madame  Foigney  tried  to  stop 
my  torrent  of  passionate  commonplaces  ...  I 
talked  and  I  talked.  But  even  as  I  poured  it  out, 
the  observer  that  every  man  has  in  him  was  listening 
with  a  surprised:  "What's  the  matter?  What's  all 
this  about?"  But  it  was  no  use.  I  went  right  on 
to  the  end:  I  told  Madame  Foigney  that  I  wanted 
to  marry — and  to  marry  her!  "No  one  can  live 
alone" — had  she  not  said  it  herself?  Her  sadness 
would  wear  off  as  time  went  by,  and  I  would  do  my 
best  to  help  her  to  regain  her  interest  in  life.  I  was 
a  doctor,  backed  up  by  the  heads  of  the  profession : 
I  would  work  day  and  night  to  make  a  position; 
with  her  to  help  me,  nothing  would  be  impossible. 
I  had  fallen  in  love  with  her  at  first  sight.  Her  sad 
little  story  had  gone  to  my  heart,  and  I  had  sworn 
that  I  would  help  her  back  to  happiness.  She  should 


3o8  WIDOW  FOIGNEY 

forget  the  past,  leave  it  all  behind  her — all  except 
her  dear  old  Noel  .  .  . 

It  was  some  minutes  before  I  stopped.  Madame 
Foigney  was  listening  with  her  face  buried  in  her 
handkerchief,  her  body  convulsed  by  sobs. 

"You  are  crying!  .  .  .  Oh,  don't  cry.  ...  I  beg 
you  not  to  cry.  .  .  ." 

But  no !  She  was  not  crying.  She  was  laughing 
.  .  .  shaking  with  laughter. 

"How  funny !"  she  cried.    "Oh,  how  very  funny !" 

It  makes  me  angry  to  see  a  widow  laugh,  and  I 
was  the  more  so  because  I  felt  I  looked  like  an 
imbecile.  It  was  some  little  time  before  she  was 
able  to  explain. 

"No,  dear  Monsieur,  I  will  not  be  your  wife." 

"And  why?  .  .  .  Aren't  you  a  widow?" 

"I  am  a  wife,  and  my  husband  is  very  much  alive. 
He  is  Noel,  the  old  servant.  He  is  really  Servaing, 
the  upholsterer.  As  business  was  not  at  all  good, 
we  invented  this  widow-trick  to  sell  'complete  house- 
hold effects.'  It  has  been  a  great  success.  Since 
you  were  here,  we've  sold  all  this  three  times  over. 
We  just  bring  the  things  in  and  take  them  out  again. 
...  In  a  year  we  shall  have  enough  to  retire  from 
business.  .  .  .  Don't  you  think  I  do  the  widow 
very  well  ?  .  .  .  Even  my  husband  begins  to  believe 
in  it  sometimes,  and  sheds  tears  over  his  own 
death.  .  .  ." 

"He  is  not  at  all  bad  in  his  part  either,  looks 
the  old  servant  to  the  life,"  I  said  with  some 
bitterness. 

"Come,  come,  don't  be  angry.  .  .  .  Remember, 
it  is  very  nice  of  me  to  have  taken  you  into  my  con- 


WIDOW  FOIGNEY  309 

fidence.  Don't  stand  on  your  dignity.  .  .  .  I'll  let 
you  have  everything  for  twelve  thousand." 

I  hesitated,  and  she  added  in  a  low  voice:  "Say 
'yes,'  and  as  soon  as  the  things  are  in  your  flat,  I 
will  go  and  help  you  to  arrange  them." 

I  said  yes,  and  she  kept  her  word.  But  I  must 
confess  that  both  the  furniture  and  the  acquaintance 
came  to  pieces  very  quickly — shoddy  stuff ! 


M 


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